


The Halloween Special

by MagpieTales



Category: Southern Vampire Mysteries - Charlaine Harris
Genre: F/M, Horror, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 10:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16473572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieTales/pseuds/MagpieTales
Summary: Eric didn't believe in ghosts. He was a scientist, and no ghost ever survived contact with cold hard logic. He and his friends knew that if something went bump in the night, it was a door slamming or the cat knocking a plant over. Not anything supernatural. (All Human)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this up for a Halloween contest, oh, over two years ago now. Failed to finish it then, tried and failed last October too. But hey, third time lucky. It's 12 chapters so fairly short for me. It's also my first, and probably only, attempt at All Human.
> 
> Hope you like it. Happy Halloween!

 

"Told you the place had potential," Pam said smugly.

Eric gave a non-committal grunt in reply and dropped his cigarette onto the wet gravel of the driveway. Grinding it under his heel, he made a frame of his hands and looked through it at the property Pam had brought him to see.

A sprawling manor house dominated the view, its slate roof mossy and uneven, its stone walls rain-darkened and lichen-stained. Narrow windows encased in thick stonework gave the place a brooding, heavy look and their diamond-leaded panes glinted darkly under the overcast sky, adding to the general air of gloom. A square, single-storey porch thrust out from the middle of the house and its entrance, a wide archway deep in shadow, gaped like a hungry maw. The roof was topped with a mismatched assortment of chimneys and, ruining any semblance of symmetry, a squat, open-sided bell tower perched at one end, the bell hanging inside it silhouetted ominously against the steel-grey clouds.

On a wet, dismal day like this, the house was near picture-perfect for their purposes. That is, filming an episode of _Phantom Science,_ an amateur web series that debunked the spooky and the spectral with rational thought and scientific explanation. It had been their pet project for almost seven years now.

"The camera will just eat it up," Pam continued, "and the rent is very reasonable."

"I can see why," Eric said, dropping his hands and looking pointedly around.

The house sat in a shallow valley, in grounds that had once been beautifully landscaped but were now unkempt, the lawn weedy, the shrubs overgrown to the point of neglect. The place looked abandoned. It really was perfect, but Eric wasn't about to admit that.

"Everywhere's cheaper this time of year," Pam said defensively. "October is off-season and we're a little off the beaten track."

"A little?" Eric scoffed. Pretending to be doubtful, he frowned at the manor and rubbed his chin. "Hm. We'll have to lose that To Let sign. And those windows are tiny. Stan will whine about the lighting."

"Let him whine. The interior is fabulous, if I do say so myself. Hunting trophies on the walls, oak panelling, stone fireplaces, the works. It just oozes the right atmosphere."

It did sound fantastic. "Tudor, you say."

"Originally, but it's been added to over the years."

"How big are the beds?"

Pam put a hand on her hip, a sign his lack of enthusiasm was getting to her. "They _have_ updated the furniture in the last five hundred years. And it's only three nights, petal. You'll live."

"Don't call me that."

"Then don't be such a precious flower."

"You try sleeping on a bed a foot shorter than you are. Oh wait, you can't. You'd have to raid a dolls-house for that."

"You're just jealous." Pam gestured at herself and her designer ensemble with a beautifully manicured hand. "Small _is_ beautiful."

"Big is better." He smirked. "Or so she said."

Pam rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, you're a giant among men. A giant _Neanderthal_. Mind you don't scrape your knuckles on the gravel."

"Bitch," he said, laughing. The drizzle had restarted. He shrugged up the collar of his coat against it and admitted grudgingly, "Good call on the house. When's the Yank arriving?"

"Don't you dare call her that. She's from the South."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I know."

"Eric," Pam warned, narrowing her eyes, "if you make her miserable enough to quit, I'll skin you alive. We need to keep her sweet."

"You said that about Flanagan too. Until you begged me to get rid of her."

Two years ago Nan Flanagan, a cash-flush and recently-widowed Irish woman, offered to invest a chunk of capital in their tiny production company. The company was just a vehicle for _Phantom Science_ so it was more of a hobby than a going concern, but Pam had some crazy ideas about where they could take the show if they had a backer and she was tempted by Nan's offer. Eric, however, warned that the woman couldn't be trusted and his instincts were spot on. Nan had an unhealthy obsession with the occult, as they soon discovered, and she insinuated herself into more and more of the decision-making, eventually demanding complete editorial control.

That was Pam's province and suddenly Nan's interference was not to be borne. Never mind that Nan had been flirting sickeningly with Eric for weeks by then, as if her money somehow bought her a ticket to his bed. Mostly by text thankfully, but still. It made his skin crawl.

Pam had insisted he play along, but once she decided Nan had to go all bets were off. Eric was only too happy to make life unbearable for the delusional old bat, and Nan left in a storm of offended dignity after a particularly vicious row that ended with Eric making several unprintable suggestions for what she could do with the sizeable stick wedged up her arse. Fortunately, Pam had the foresight to include a cooling-off period in the contract and took great delight in returning Nan's investment, severing their association for good. She'd given Eric a very expensive bottle of whisky as a thank you too.

He'd taken it as an unspoken apology. Pam didn't do the spoken kind; it wasn't her style.

"Flanagan was a special case," Pam said airily. "Besides, she was an investor. Co-hosts are different. And this is just a one-off, but you know how important the Halloween episode is. Don't mess it up."

"If this American is anything like the last co-host you saddled me with, it'll be a disaster without any help from me."

Pam grimaced. Yes, Sophie-Ann LeClerq had been a nightmare of epic proportions. If she'd known the Z-list French starlet came with the most annoying nasal whine and the demands of an entitled Hollywood diva, but very little talent to speak of to make up for it, she'd never have hired her. But Sophie-Ann had been very photogenic, and sufficiently flirtatious in their email exchanges to prick Pam's interest.

"The American won't be as bad as LeClerq," Pam assured. She was fairly sure that wasn't actually possible; no-one else could be that irritating, surely. "But if she is, you'll just have to grit your teeth and bear it. I've already billed this episode as the _Transatlantic_ _Alliance_."

She said the title so seriously that Eric could almost hear the capitals. Laughing, he parroted it back at her, complete with mocking air quotes. Pam slapped him on the arm.

"Ouch," he dead-panned.

"I mean it, Eric. We don't have time to hunt down another American. It took me months to find this one and I don't want her walking before the episode is in the can. Behave yourself."

"I always behave. On camera."

"Off camera is what I'm worried about," she muttered. "No pulling pigtails, you overgrown child."

He put on a ridiculously innocent expression and thickened his accent. "Pig's tails? Pulling the curly tails of little piggies? Is this some quaint English custom, like chasing the fox with the doggies?" He wiggled his eyebrows and leered. "Those red jackets and tight trousers are so sexy."

"Fox hunting was banned two years ago," Pam snapped. "And the dumb Swede act doesn't work on me, remember? I know you've been here for years."

Eric gave her an impish grin. "Ah, but the Yank won't know that."

Pam punched him, hard. While he was swearing and rubbing his arm back to life, she made a note to bring some painkillers when they came back to film. She had a feeling it was going to be a long, headache-inducing weekend.

…

Eric waited outside the manor house, smoking and one eye on the clouds. The forecast promised blustery rain, typical mid-October weather and just what they needed. He was wearing the jeans that Pam said flattered his arse, the blue cashmere jumper that she said brought out his eyes — whatever the hell that meant — and the battered leather jacket that he credited with more successful conquests than either of them.

Not that he was anticipating anything like that with a co-host, not after Sophie-Ann. But it paid to make an impression.

At the noise of a car coming down the long gravel drive, he stamped out his cigarette. He raised an eyebrow when a black London taxi-cab came into view. The Americans hadn't driven themselves? Maybe they weren't comfortable driving on the left. Or perhaps none of them could drive a manual.

What was it they called that again? Ah, yes. Stick-shift.

The taxi swung in a sharp arc, scattering gravel. Before it came to a complete stop, the back door flew open and a woman hopped out. She had auburn hair cut in a neat bob, and she was talking twenty to the dozen into a phone clutched to her ear. Absently, she grabbed the door and held it open. A second woman appeared, her head ducked, so all Eric saw at first was a mop of honey-blonde hair. Then she straightened up, and his breath caught as he drank in her face. Delicate nose, full lips, sparkling blue eyes. (He was sure they were blue and sparkling, even though he wasn't nearly close enough to tell.) She smiled at him. Were those dimples? He was a sucker for dimples, and as for the rest of her…

_She_ _can_ _shift_ _my_ _stick any time._

He banished the thought immediately. She was probably just another Sophie-Ann: beautiful, but empty-headed and venomous. It was too much to hope for a personality as attractive as her appearance, let alone a sense of humour to match his.

He strode forward, hand held out. "Miss Stackhouse, I presume. Eric, Eric Northman."

"Pleasure to meet you, Eric," she said, taking his hand. "Please, call me Sookie."

Firm grip, those eyes _were_ blue, and her voice was rich and warm. He liked her accent. It suited her. "You're shorter than I expected," he said, with a smile. "Did you bring something to stand on?"

"Stand on?" She frowned and he held his breath. Was she going to take offence? Then the corner of her mouth lifted and one of those lovely dimples appeared. "Oh, honey," she drawled, "whatever makes you think we'll be standin'."

Did she just...? Oh, she did! His grin broadened and his voice deepened. "I meant for when we're on camera."

"So did I," she said, not missing a beat.

Those eyes were definitely sparkling now. Oh, this weekend was going to be all kinds of fun. Flirtatious sense of humour: check. Now to test the mettle underneath that lovely exterior, see if her courage rose to the occasion. Worse case scenario, she'd turn out to be a screamer. (Ginger, the last extra Pam hired for a shoot, had a scream loud enough to drop an elephant. Ginger had lasted precisely three hours.) Eric glanced at the taxi. The driver, a burly guy with dark hair, was hauling luggage out of the back while the brunette with the bob directed him in a loud voice. Good, it was just the two of them.

"Would you like to see inside the house?" he asked. She was already staring at it.

"Would I ever. We don't have anything this old back home."

"Ladies first," he said like the gentleman he definitely wasn't. He gestured towards the impressive stone porch. The benches built into it could comfortably seat six and the arched double-doors it protected were tall and dark with age, their thick oak planks dotted with iron studs.

"Why thank you," she said, and her smile almost made him abort the plan. Almost.

Then she was passing him, her trainers crunching the gravel, and he forgot to do anything but stare. Those jeans clung to her like a second skin, and the sway of her hips—

_Focus, Northman. You don't want this go_ _ing_ _wrong_ _._

A few brisk strides had him just about caught up to her, but a raucous cawing made him look up instinctively. Two crows erupted from the roof in a burst of flapping. Sookie gasped, stopping so abruptly he almost smacked into her. Was she frightened of birds? Before he could even think of teasing her, a harsh scraping came from overhead — the sound of stone dragging on stone — and something fell from the roof edge.

It tumbled towards them, square and black against the sky.

Eric leapt forwards, clamped an arm around Sookie's waist, lifted her off her feet and bundled her bodily into the shelter of the porch. The falling object clattered against the porch roof above, a series of thuds and scrapes echoing off the bare stone walls, ending with a sharp crack. A shower of fragments rained down outside, pattering harmlessly onto the gravel.

The object had shattered completely.

Sookie wriggled out of his hold at once, which was a crying shame. No scream though, which was a blessing. And promising, distinctly promising.

"Sookie!" That was the brunette, still beside the taxi. Her yell was impressively loud. "You okay, honey?"

"Just peachy," Sookie yelled back. Pushing past Eric, she stomped out of the porch, waved off the concerned taxi-driver who looked like he was about to come over, and began examining the debris.

Eric thrust his hands into his pockets and joined her just as she squinted up at the roof, a hand raised to shield her eyes.

"What in the hell...?" She shook her head and snorted. "Oh, I get it. Putting the new gal through her paces, huh?"

"Whatever do you mean?" he said, trying not to laugh at the scowl she was directing his way.

"One," she said, pointing at the roof, "there ain't a single tile missing up there, Mister Eric Northman. And two" — bending down, she snatched a fragment off the ground and waved it under his nose — "this here is red clay, but that there on the roof is... is... Shoot. What in tarnation is that again?"

"Slate," he said, amused by the way her accent had thickened.

"Slate. Thank you. Decidedly _grey_ slate." She tossed the fragment away and dusted off her hands. "You must think I came down in the last shower. Unless... Was I meant to swoon into your arms? Does crap like that actually work on English chicks?"

He did laugh then, in surprise. "I wouldn't know. I only play pranks on friends and colleagues these days, not random girls I meet down the pub."

"Girls you meet down the pub," she repeated slowly, giving him a thoughtful look. "You don't date colleagues."

"Not as a rule. But rules have exceptions." He stared boldly into her eyes, daring her to look away.

She didn't, not even when footsteps crunched towards them and a throat cleared loudly. Eric couldn't tell who broke eye-contact first, but they both turned towards the sound. It was the taxi-driver. Close up he was tanned and surly, with a belligerent set to his jaw.

"This fool bothering you, darlin'?" he asked Sookie, with a distinctly Southern twang.

Ah. Not a taxi-driver, one of her team. Older than her though, a touch of grey in his hair.

"Nope," she said, popping the p. "He's still standing, ain't he? Tray, this is Eric Northman, our gracious host. Eric, this rude asshole is Tray Dawson, my friend and sometime cameraman."

"And sometime bodyguard," Tray added, folding his arms. "Who doesn't appreciate things falling on his friend from a great height."

"She was perfectly safe," said an irritated voice.

They all turned to look at the man stepping out of the porch. He was short and skinny, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses, a faded Spiderman t-shirt, worn jeans and scuffed workman's boots. "That tile was rigged to break long before it hit the ground," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "I tested it at least half a dozen times. No-one was in any danger."

"Sookie, Tray," Eric said, "meet Stan Davidowitz, my right-hand man."

"Don't forget cameraman extraordinaire," Stan said, tucking the rag into his pocket and treating Sookie to a dazzling smile. "Also lighting technician, sound engineer, all-round tech support and Eric's partner-in-crime. At your service."

"Pleasure to meet you," Sookie said, shaking his hand, grease and all.

Eric supressed an eye-roll as Stan pulled her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. Four was definitely a crowd.

"Pleasure's all mine," Stan said smoothly, winking at her as he let go. He turned to Tray, who looked sceptically at the hand he was offered.

"You gonna slobber all over me too?"

"Only if you buy me at least ten pints," Stan said seriously. Then his face broke into a cheeky grin. "I'd need some serious beer goggles to mistake you for a woman, you great big bear of a man."

The ice broken, Tray laughed and shook his hand. The brunette with the bob had been talking animatedly to Pam over by the taxi, but they came over and there was another round of introductions. Eric was pleased when the brunette — one Miss Amelia Broadway — slipped an arm around Tray's waist. They were a couple. He was less pleased with the glare Pam was directing his way, but he ignored that with an ease born of long friendship.

"The boys like to play a few tricks now and then," Pam said to Sookie. "I do hope they didn't upset you."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Sookie said graciously. "It takes more than loose roof-tile to rattle me. I have an older brother. I know how to take a prank."

Her eyes were twinkling. Eric didn't know what that twinkle meant, but he definitely liked the look of it.

"Well, they won't do it again," Pam said firmly, shooting Eric and Stan a baleful look. That was Pam-speak for she'd have their balls if they even thought about it. As soon as she turned back to the others, Eric and Stan grinned at each other behind her back. When had her disapproval ever stopped them?

"Right," Pam continued briskly, "what are we all standing out here in the cold for? Boys, fetch the luggage. Ladies, let me show you what we're working with here. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

Sookie and Amelia followed her inside and Tray trotted obediently towards the pile of luggage. Eric, however, hung back to speak to Stan, both of them glancing towards the open front doors. The Americans were making tantalising exclamations as they got their first look at the interior.

"Worked like a charm," Eric said quietly to his best friend. "The crows were a nice touch. A little Hitchcock always ups the scream factor. Almost got a reaction out of her. "

"Crows?" Stan shrugged. "That wasn't me, big man. I don't know what set them off."

...


	2. Chapter 2

They spent that afternoon investigating all the nooks and crannies the house had to offer. Some rooms radiated a faded splendour, little altered over the centuries and filled with furniture that, if it wasn't authentic, was at least antique and sympathetically chosen. Others were a real mishmash of styles and eras.

The kitchen, for instance, which was at the rear of the house, down a corridor. It had a worn stone floor, a low beamed ceiling and one window set in the thick outer wall facing the corridor. This didn't let in much light, so some bright spark had fitted fluorescent tubes that did the grubby whitewash on the walls no favours.

On the right as you came in was a spectacular Tudor fireplace, six feet wide and tall enough for a short-arse like Stan to stand up in, but the fire hadn't been lit for some time and apart from an iron grate fixed into the stonework the hearth was bare and cold. (There'd been a mechanical spit once, but all that was left of it now were some rusty plugs of iron embedded in the wall.) To the left, in the far corner, two steps led down to the back door and a door to what had been a pantry but was now a drying room. Fixed to the wall at that end of the kitchen were two remnants of a Victorian past: a pastry table with a cracked marble top, and a butler's sink, deep, square and chipped.

More recent owners had installed the stainless steel sink under the window, the faux granite counter it was set in, and some cupboards. The cupboards were dated; the counter had a dark circle at one end where someone had carelessly put down a hot pan. The sturdy oak table in the middle of the room had seen better days too. The gas cooker looked fairly new, but the microwave and fridge were twenty years old. In short, the kitchen looked like the run-down holiday rental it was.

But that evening it was warm and noisy, and smelt pleasantly aromatic. No-one had wanted to cook, so Stan and Eric had taken the van to the nearest market town and fetched enough curry to feed an army. Open foil containers and bottles of wine littered the table and laughter filled the air.

The two groups got on surprisingly well, Eric thought. The Americans hadn't been shy about making suggestions for the shoot, rather emphatically at times, but whilst toes may have been stepped on none had been broken. Tray had bowed to Stan's expertise when it came to technical matters, which certainly helped. Woe betide anyone who disagreed with Stan over his precious production values.

Stan was holding court at the other end of the table, amusing the Americans with anecdotes from their student days. Currently, the memorable evening he got arrested for being drunk in charge of a goat. When he got to the punchline, everybody laughed except Eric. His attention was on the blonde giggling beside him.

Sookie caught him watching her as she reached for the naan bread. “This is delicious,” she said, tearing off a piece and moping her plate with it. “I was expecting something more…”

“Boring? Stodgy?” Eric smiled at her. “Yes, it surprised me too, how much the English love spicy food.”

Pam launched into another university tale — the one about stealing those twins from right under Stan's nose, a favourite of hers. The others were hanging on every word. Eric reached for the nearest bottle and asked Sookie quietly, “So how did you get into all this?

“Paranormal investigations, you mean?” She shook her head when he offered to top up her glass. “That's a long story.”

“I'm all ears.” He filled his own glass and gestured at Pam with the bottle. “I was there for the infamous night of the twins.”

“Heard it a thousand times, huh? You guys are real close.”

“Sharing a house as broke students does that. I've seen Stan eating cornflakes naked.” He was gratified when she laughed, but he wasn't giving up. “You're avoiding the question.”

She pulled a face. “It's not a happy story.”

“Neither was seeing Stan naked, believe me.”

She smiled briefly, her eyes on her glass as she toyed with it. She sighed. “Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you. My parents died when I was seven.” She cut his half-formed apology off. “Water under the bridge. Quite literally, as it happens. Flash flood washed them away.”

It was said so smoothly, no flicker of emotion in her expression or voice, that it had to be a line she'd used a thousand times. Kicking himself for pressing, Eric made a sympathetic noise.

“You cut that out,” she said sharply. “Plenty have it worse. Gran took me and my brother in, raised us like her own. We were poor as dirt, but happy as pigs rolling in it. Until my last year of high school that is, when Aunt Linda got real sick.” She gulped down the dregs of her wine as if she was washing away a bad taste. “Cancer. Terrible way to go, wouldn't wish it on a dog. I wanted to delay going to college, but Gran wouldn't hear of it. So off I went to New Orleans, which is where I met Amelia. We were room-mates.” She gave him half a smile. “And yes, before you ask, I've seen her naked more times than I care to count.”

Seizing his chance to lighten the mood, Eric wiggled his eyebrows. “And you've been bosom buddies ever since.”

“Not as bosom as Amelia wanted,” she murmured, something about that amusing her, but the light in her eyes faded fast. “I took a job down there to make rent. Didn't make it home for Thanksgiving, only a couple days at Christmas. Didn't notice anything amiss. But my brother kept calling that spring, worried about Gran. I was having a grand old time, what with my first Mardi Gras and all, so like an idiot I brushed him off. Didn't go home until summer.”

Whatever came next was bad. He could tell from the tension round her eyes.

“When I got there, the power was off, the house was sweltering, and not a scrap of food in the place. That wasn't like Gran. She loved to bake. Turned out she'd been seeing a medium.” Her lip curled. “Madame Abelard she called herself, but if she had a drop of Cajun blood I'm the Queen of Sheba.”

Amelia glanced over, perhaps catching the anger in her friend's tone. Sookie flashed her a reassuring smile. A scarily wide smile that didn't reach her eyes, Eric noticed, but it seemed to be enough for Amelia, who turned back to the others.

Eric lowered his voice. “This medium was a con-artist?”

“And a good one too,” Sookie said, doing the same. “That bitch could talk water uphill. Gran went for a reading once a fortnight at first, then once a week, then twice. All her money and then some went to that bloodsucker. I was furious, but Gran wouldn't hear a word against her. Said talking to Linda and Corbett — that's my daddy — brought her comfort, and you couldn't put a price on that.”

“So you exposed Abelard as a fake,” he guessed.

“Sure did. Long story short, Amelia went to a seance posing as a trust-fund kid whose daddy had passed. Now her daddy _is_ as rich as sin, mind, but he's healthy as a horse. We played Gran a recording.” Pushing rice around her plate, she added softly, “It about broke her heart, finding out that bitch was spouting nonsense.”

“Bloody vultures, the lot of them. Did you get the money back?”

Sookie shook her head. “When the cops went a-knocking, Abelard, if that was even her name, had upped and vanished. And the damage was done. Gran had taken a loan out against the house, a real bad one. I quit college, went back to waitressing to keep us afloat, but it looked like we were gonna lose the place for sure. Gran was distraught. Had a stroke a month later, never really recovered.”

“Shit.” There wasn't much else to say.

“It was. Real shitty. Guilt killed her, I reckon. Place had been in my granddaddy's family since it was built.” She gave him a tight smile. “But some good came of it. I got talking to a school friend at the funeral. She stopped by a week later, begging for my help. Her mom is an alcoholic, and this fake-ass voodoo priestess was promising to cure her for a thousand bucks. Exorcise her demons or some bullshit. I proved it was a scam. Tara was so grateful she insisted on paying me. Got my P.I. license a year later, and the rest is history. Not quite the law career I was aiming for, but it keeps us in biscuits and gravy.”

“There's enough frauds around to do that?”

“Oh yes. Louisiana is full of them. Mediums, psychics, voodoo, hoodoo — you name it, we got it. All part of our Southern charm, apparently.” She snorted scornfully, then shrugged it off. “Anyway, enough about me. How did y'all end up ghost-busting?”

“Don't call it that around Stan. He's still pissed off Pam wouldn't let us call the show that in case we got sued.”

“Stan's a real movie geek, huh?” Sookie reached for the wine, topped up his glass when he nodded and poured a splash into her own. “Pam said it started with a bet?”

“It did,” Eric admitted, faintly embarrassed. What they did wasn't nearly as noble as saving grief-stricken old ladies from charlatans and conmen. “We were watching late night TV. One of those haunted house shows came on, you know the kind — a bunch of gullible idiots sleep in a creaky old house, cue lots of screaming and running about in the dark. Totally ridiculous. We took the piss out of it so much, Pam fell off the sofa laughing. We, ah, may have been tipsy.” (Completely rat-arsed, more like it.) “Stan bet we could do better. This was just before Halloween, so we rigged up some cameras, set up some tricks and threw a party.”

“The pranks aren't a new thing, then.”

“Oh no,” Eric said, cracking a smile. “It got so bad that year, Pam refused to open the bathroom door by herself.”

“One too many buckets of ice water?”

“Ah, no. Green hair-dye.”

“You didn't!” Sookie whisper-yelled, shooting a look at Pam, who didn't have a platinum blonde hair out of place after hours of exploring dusty wardrobes and cobwebby corners. “I'm surprised she didn't castrate you.”

“She might have. If she knew which of us it was.”

Sookie leaned over to whisper into his ear: “Dollar says it was both of you.”

“I'm pleading the fifth,” he whispered back, delighted by her closeness and the giggle he got in response. She pulled back and he went on in a normal voice. “We put the footage online. Not just the screaming, a how-to guide for the tricks too. It got a lot of hits.”

“I bet it did.” She eyed him coyly over the rim of her glass. “It was pretty damn funny.”

“You've seen it?” Eric said, horrified but trying not to show it. It was a terrible video. He'd been an obnoxious little shit back then too, and that awful haircut… “I didn't know it was still out there.”

“Oh, it isn't. A copy just landed in my in-box.” Sookie flicked her eyes at Pam, so he knew exactly who to blame. “I have to ask, was that punch for real?”

“Yes,” he said, grimacing. Thalia had a solid left hook for such a tiny thing. “I had a black-eye for a week.”

“Good.” She was laughing at him now. “You deserved it, filming that poor girl in the bathroom.”

“Probably did,” he admitted. “She dumped me over it, though. Temporarily. For a fortnight.”

“A fortnight? I'd have held out for a month.”

“Is that so?” he said flirtatiously.

“Well,” she drawled, those dimples showing, “maybe not a _whole_ month.”

Their eyes met and held, the room fading away until raised voices broke the spell. Tray was teasing Amelia for bring three suitcases to his one. Sookie jumped to her friend's defence and got drawn into a debate about the merits of designer clothing. (She was indifferent; Pam and Amelia were enthusiasts.) Staying well out of that, Eric dished more curry onto their plates.

“Mm-mm, so good,” Sookie murmured around a forkful a while later. The conversation had ebbed away from them again. “So,” she asked quietly, “how did y'all go from candid camera fright-fests to the slick stuff you put out now?”

“You watch the show?” He was surprised.

“Just the last one. A gal likes to know what she's getting into.”

“I could only find two grainy newspaper pictures of you.” Eric looked her in the eye. “Which didn't do you justice, by the way.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, hiding a pleased smile behind her glass. When he didn't say anything else, she prompted, “The show?”

Eric, who had been imagining taking that glass away and kissing her stupid, dragged his mind out of the gutter with an effort. “Not much to tell. We made two more prank shows, but everyone was onto us and the hits dropped off. So we tried a new format. Like Mythbusters, but for the supernatural.”

“Stan's idea?”

“How did you guess. He's a fan. We show how easily the mind and eyes can be tricked into seeing things that aren't really there, demonstrate special effects, explain weird noises and strange coincidences. Also the biology behind those 'someone walked over my grave' feelings everyone gets and so forth.”

“That was my favourite part.”

“Thanks, that was my idea. We started filming on location too. Squats and empty houses when we were hard up, old houses like this one now. Last year we did a castle.”

“Damn, I'd have loved that.”

“You wouldn't. No roof. It was a ruin.”

“Oh,” she laughed. “Not as glamorous as I was imagining.”

“It rained the whole time too. So the hits gradually picked up, we got better at filming, and here we are. Making an episode is quite time-consuming, so we only do about four a year. But it brings in some extra cash.”

“No quitting the day job?”

He chuckled. “Not for me. Those two earn enough not to care. Stan's in computing, as you probably guessed. He's been into cameras since he was a kid, so he does all the filming. Pam works in the City. Finance, lots of contacts. She handles the money, the legalities, what little marketing we do. I'm just the pretty face in front of the camera.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that. What did you study? Wait, don't tell me.” She looked him up and down, head tilted, finger tapping her chin. “Hm. Steady hands, long fingers. Surgery?”

He laughed. “No. Marine biology. Did my doctorate up in Edinburgh, got a research post there.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding wisely. “Research. I should've guessed from the long hair.”

“No short back-and-sides for me,” he said, flicking his hair over his shoulder and batting his eyes playfully. “No suit and tie either, or sitting on my arse in an office all day. I spend most of my time at the beach or out on a boat.”

“A real outdoors guy then.”

“If it involves the sea. I've always loved the ocean.” The scraping of chairs surprised him. The others were getting up, the meal over. Shit, he'd been engrossed.

“You stay put,” Sookie told him, stacking their plates together and getting up to help. “You fetched dinner, I got this.”

Eric finished his wine, grabbed his jumper from the back of his chair and slipped outside for a smoke. The sky was clear and the air cold, threatening frost. He was halfway through his cigarette when Pam joined him by the recycling bins.

“You and blondie were thick as thieves in there,” she commented, taking the cigarette he offered her.

Pam only smoked when she was stressed or drunk, and they hadn't had that much wine. Better not to piss her off. “Just getting to know her,” he said airily. “You want us to be comfortable on camera, don't you?”

“Comfortable, yes. But that looked like flirting and I know how that goes with you. First the chase, then the conquest, then the crying. And tears look terrible on camera, even on pretty blondes.”

Eric took a drag of his cigarette to stop himself snapping at her. “There won't be any tears, Pam. She's an adult.” And a tough one at that, given everything she'd just told him.

“Have it your way.” Pam jabbed her barely-smoked cigarette against the nearest bin, putting it out in a shower of sparks. “But for Christ's sake, leave the shagging until after we're done filming.”

…

When Eric went back inside, Sookie was washing glasses in the sink. And giggling again. Stan was beside her, drying. Stan, who would rather order pizza and eat it out of the box than wash a dish. He was grinning that charming grin of his too, the one that meant he was serious about chatting a girl up.

But a little competition never fazed Eric, and it wasn't the first time they'd competed over a girl.

Walking nonchalantly past, he peeled off his jumper. The t-shirt underneath rode up with it, and in the long moment before he tugged it back down he was sure he felt eyes on his back. He turned around to Stan's scowling face. Sookie was avoiding his eyes, her head bowed over the sink.

Her cheeks were pink, though. She'd definitely taken a look.

Sadly, he didn't get a chance to talk to her again, because right after that the ladies decided to turn in, Tray with them. Stan and Eric lingered in the kitchen over a nightcap or three.

“Here's to pretty Americans,” Eric said, raising his glass.

“She is lovely,” Stan agreed, swallowing a generous gulp of whisky. “Shall we toss a coin? Loser steps aside.”

Eric grinned. “You only say that when you know you haven't got a snowball in hell's chance. Should've called dibs.”

“Don't be a prick,” Stan grumbled. “You could let me have first crack at her. I haven't got laid in months. And you don't even like blondes.”

“There was Karin.”

“That was years ago.” Stan drained his glass. “And you only went after her because Pam said even you couldn't charm your way into the Ice Queen's bed.”

“I do so like to prove Pam wrong,” Eric agreed, downing the remains of his whisky too. He took their glasses to the sink, checked the back door was bolted.

“Rules of the contest?” Stan asked as he got to his feet. “How about a bet, make things interesting?”

Something about that rubbed Eric the wrong way. “No,” he said sharply. “No bets. We're not fucking nineteen. And no rules either. All's fair.”

“No bitching when she picks me, then.”

“When have I ever bitched?” Eric asked in an offended tone. He followed Stan out, flicking the kitchen lights off. The corridor was dark, but Stan was right by the light switch.

“You want a list? When that Greek girl punched you in the face for a start, then there was—” The switch clicked on-off, on-off. “Shit. The bulb's gone. You got your phone? I left mine in the van.”

Eric stuck a hand in his pocket and remembered. He groaned. “It's upstairs, charging.”

“Christ, it's bloody dark out here.”

“Don't be such a wuss, city boy. Just follow the wall.” It _was_ dark after the bright kitchen, but Eric could just about make Stan out, a dark shape against slightly less dark surroundings. Grumbling, Stan shuffled slowly down the corridor. Eric followed, taking his own advice and trailing a hand on the wall. The floor was uneven.

“Aha!” Stan said, picking up the pace. “Light at the end of the tunnel.”

There _was_ light ahead but not very much of it. Soon there was a thud, the scrape of furniture on a hard floor, and Stan's loud and colourful swearing.

Eric laughed softly.

“Sod off, that bloody hurt. Who the fuck puts a table in a corridor?”

“Poor baby, let me rub it better.” He grabbed at Stan's legs, but Stan shoved him away.

“Stop being an arse. Come on, I can see the stairs.”

They'd reached the entrance hall, an impressive room that rose the full height of the house. In daylight, it had a chequered tile floor and its walls were lined with dark oak panels, dingy oil paintings and antlered deer heads. At night, it was a mass of shadows. Eerie shadows that were impossible to make sense of after that whisky.

Across the hall, a staircase climbed and turned, turned and climbed, boxed in by ornate wooden banisters. The light Stan had seen, pale and colourless, shone down from somewhere upstairs onto the half-landing and the oak panels there gleamed softly, like a beacon in a sea of shadows. They walked towards it, their boots clumping on the tiles, Stan rubbing at his thigh and muttering about a torch he'd left in the van. Eric ignored him. Stan was forever leaving things in the van. Memory like a sieve, the bloody idiot.

A noise came from behind them, a quiet scuttling that suddenly cut short. They stopped, looked at each other.

“Mice?” Stan suggested, peering into a pitch-black corner. “Bound to be some in an old place like this.”

“Yeah, mice.”

It sounded bigger to Eric, and wetter somehow, but he was halfway drunk and all the way tired, and he wanted his bed. Just the whisky playing tricks. Had to be.

The stairs creaked underfoot as they mounted them. The carpet was threadbare and rucked in places, so Eric was watching his feet when Stan nudged him and nodded ahead. “He's a serious chap, isn't he?”

A portrait hung above the half-landing, a huge thing in a hideous gilt frame. Elizabethan, maybe. The man in it wore a ruff and a doublet with fancy sleeves. Eric didn't remember noticing it earlier, but it seemed familiar. He stared at the face as he climbed the stairs. Dark eyes, a neat pointed beard, hair swept back from a high wide forehead.

The light dimmed, and Stan inhaled sharply. The face in the portrait was changing: eyes darkening to holes, the nose too, cheeks hollowing, mouth stretching, lipless now, exposing the too-long teeth… A skull! It was a skull, empty-eyed and glowing faintly.

It grinned its death-grin at them.

A loud crack rang out, sharp as a pistol shot. Eric jumped, his heart pounding. A dark spot blossomed on the skull, right in the centre of its forehead. Liquid flowed sluggishly from it, dark droplets swelling into lazy rivulets that trickled down over that bony grin, slowly obliterating it.

“What the fuck?” Stan whispered as they crept forwards. “Is that blood?”

“Can't be.” Eric reached out a finger to touch it.

A floorboard creaked behind them. They froze.

Another creak, another — the slow, heavy, unmistakable tread of approaching footsteps. The hairs on the back of Eric's neck stood up and he whirled round, expecting to see a figure on the stairs above them.

There was no-one there.

The light winked out completely. Just before the darkness closed in, something launched over the upstairs bannister and dropped towards Eric. Something black and silent. Something clinging and musty. Something that wrapped around his head and cut off his air.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The attacker bore down on Eric, heavy across his shoulders, grabbing at his arms. Eric, blind and panicked, struggled furiously, but only succeeded in tangling his arms up further in what felt like a thick coat. His attacker writhed inside it, surging against him. He felt a glancing blow against his ribs, heard Stan's muffled yell, then suddenly he was free, gasping for air, heart thumping in his chest. 

But the attacker wasn't done with him. Arms closed round his shins, threatening to send him crashing to the floor.

Eric yelled and kicked out. His foot caught in something soft, and he stumbled. First into Stan, all whirling arms and bony fists. Then into a wall, hard and unforgiving, his hip and shoulder slammed into it. Pressing his back to its comforting solidity, he hissed: “Stan, you idiot! Stand still!”

Stan stopped blundering about. In the resultant quiet, all Eric could hear was his own ragged breathing. It wasn't completely dark though, and as his eyes adjusted he caught a movement at the top of the stairs. A pale head ducking down behind the banister, followed by a stifled giggle.

A very female giggle. And there, the unmistakeable glint of a lens.

He should have fucking known.

“Pamela Winifred Ravenscroft!” he yelled. Pam loathed her middle name, but he didn't give two shits about upsetting her while his heart was stampeding against his ribs like a herd of elephants. “Turn that sodding camera off!”

More female giggling, unstifled this time and undercut by a decidedly masculine guffaw. The lights came on. Tray was leaning on the banister, his shoulders shaking as he laughed his arse off. The three women beside him were cackling so much they could barely stand up.

“You fuckers,” Stan gasped. He was holding onto the newel post, a hand massaging his chest. “You absolute fuckers.”

“Quit your whining, boy,” Tray choked out between guffaws. “Those curtains are way softer than that tile you dropped on Sookie.”

Curtains? Eric stared at the heap on the landing between him and Stan in disbelief. Yes, curtains. Heavy brocade ones, spotted with mildew. That was their attacker? He could've sworn he felt arms. Jesus, that whisky had gone to his head.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Stan grumbled. “We could've fallen down the stairs. Or had a heart attack.”

Pam said, “Oh please. If either of you had a weak heart, you'd have dropped dead years ago with all the tricks you play on each other.”

“Admit it,” Tray said, coming down the stairs. “We gotcha good. Real good.”

“You did,” Eric conceded, feeling slightly more charitable now the adrenaline rush was fading. Never let it be said they were sore losers. He bowed to the gallery. “Well-played, Miss Stackhouse.”

Sookie, still on the landing above, bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you kindly, Mister Northman.”

Her cheeks were flushed, very prettily flushed, and Eric suddenly resented the distance between them. But they had an audience and now wasn't the time for flirting. Not under Pam's flinty stare, anyway. Instead, he turned to the two men beside him. Tray was gathering up the curtains as Stan peppered him with questions about that crazy glowing skull.

“No, it ain't a digital picture,” Tray said, offended. “That'd be cheating.”

“Fluorescent paint?” Eric asked, remembering how the lights had dimmed before it appeared.

“Got it in one,” Tray said, slapping his shoulder. “C'mon, Stretch. Give me a hand getting it down, and I'll show you.”

It was pretty impressive, as pranks went.

While Eric and Stan were out fetching dinner, Tray had set up a couple of UV spotlights and a hidden speaker to play those footsteps that had spooked the bejeebus out of them. The painting was a reproduction, bought at a yard-sale weeks ago and shipped over once it had been doctored. (Tray had watched Phantom Science too, and he'd decided to try his hand at special effects, beat the Brits at their own game. And been doubly eager to do so after they pranked Sookie.) Amelia, who was apparently a dab hand with a brush, had painted the skull on the glass with some UV paint that dried almost clear. Clear enough over the pale face of the portrait that it would fool them in semi-darkness, anyway. It wouldn't have held up in daylight. The paint had given the skull a suitably ghostly glow, but the real genius touch was the fake blood.

Tray took the bulky frame apart and showed them the reservoir of dye he'd built into the top of it, and one at the bottom that caught it. “All contained so it doesn't make a mess,” he explained. “The blood runs down the front of the glass, see, so you can just clean it off and re-use it.”

Eric asked, “What was the bang?”

“Explosive cap.” Tray pointed at it and grinned. “Made you two jump like startled rabbits.”

“Oh, Tray,” Eric said, shaking his head sadly, “only a fool gloats at the starting line. And now you've entered the race, you're a legitimate target for the next prank.”

“No, he isn't,” Pam called out sternly. She was perched on the stairs, watching the video play back, Amelia and Sookie a step above her, watching over it her shoulder and grinning like Cheshire cats. “This ends here, Eric. No more pranks. The shoot comes first.”

Tray leaned over and taunted Eric quietly: “She got your balls in her purse?”

Not quietly enough, because Amelia heard him and called over: “That goes for you too, Tray Michael Dawson. Unless you want to sleep in the bath.”

Eric laughed. “Looks like it's your balls on the line, not mine.”

“And that's why I'm single,” Stan muttered. He looked up from the painting. “This is great carpentry. We should put it in the show.”

Tray puffed his chest out. “Sure. Long as I get credit.”

“Of course,” Pam agreed, smiling wickedly. “As long as we get to use the footage of those two screaming like little girls.”

“We didn't scream,” Stan said, with great dignity. “We yelled. In a very manly way.”

Eric just shrugged. “Fine. It can go in the out-takes.”

“Out-takes?” Amelia asked.

“Oh yes,” Pam said, waving a hand, “that's where all the pranks end up. The boys aren't shy about making fools of themselves in front of the viewers.”

Alarmed, Sookie asked, “Did y'all film that prank you pulled on me?”

“No,” Stan said, pulling a sad face. “Eric won't film women he doesn't know any more. Got him too many black eyes, you see, and he can't risk ruining that pretty face of his.” That made Sookie laugh, and Stan winked at her. “Besides, you're not enough of screamer to make it worth our while.”

“Told y'all I could take a prank.”

“Your brother?” Eric asked, remembering what she said earlier.

“Uh-huh.” She flashed those dimples at him. “If I had a dollar for every time Jason put a frog in my bed when we were kids, I'd be a rich woman.”

“Right,” Pam said, snapping the video camera shut. “Time for bed, people. Busy day tomorrow.”

After Tray put that hideous frame back together, Eric helped him carry the portrait up to his and Amelia's room. Pam had put the Americans in the wing to the right, where the rooms were bigger and en suite. Eric and Stan were to the left, with Pam, three of them to one bathroom, in what used to be the servant's quarters from the minuscule size of the bedrooms.

When Eric came out of Tray's room he found Sookie in the corridor, just as he'd hoped. She stuck out her hand. “Truce?”

“Truce,” he said, shaking on it. Then he added slyly, “Until we're done filming.”

“Don't you ever give up?” she said, chuckling. She leaned against her door, looking at him. “You were a good sport tonight. Most guys hate to be made fools of like that.”

“I lived with Stan for two years; I built up an immunity. And life is no fun if you can't laugh at yourself.”

“Not everybody gets that. Some folks can dish it out, but they sure can't take it.”

“Your amphibian-loving brother?” He was pleased when she stepped away from the door and towards him. And more pleased when, after a look up and down the corridor to check they were alone, she leaned in close.

“Jason,” she whispered conspiratorially, “may have taken it a little hard when I covered him and the inside of his precious pickup truck in pig's blood. But in his defence, he was with one of his many, many high school dates and about to get lucky.”

“Ouch,” he whispered back. “What did he do to deserve the Carrie treatment?”

“Let my tires down, made me late for a shift at the hardware store. Lost my job over it, too. I was mad as a wet hen.”

“Then he got what was coming to him. I like your accent, by the way.”

And your lips, he thought, glancing down at them. They were pink, and very inviting.

Smiling softly, she stretched up on her toes and leaned even closer. So close he could count her eyelashes. Her face tilted up. He bent towards it. Those lips parted, only a fraction from his, and his eyes closed in anticipation. Her breath caressed his mouth. Lips, soft and warm, feathered against his and—

She jerked back like a scalded cat. Someone was clattering up the stairs.

Pam. She shot Eric a glare worthy of Medusa. “Night all,” she said loudly. “Early start tomorrow, don't forget.”

“Guess I should hit the hay,” Sookie said regretfully, opening her door. “Goodnight, Eric.”

“Night, Sookie. Sweet dreams.” _Mine will be._

Eric took his turn in the bathroom and settled down for the night. The single bed in his room was just about long enough for his legs. He grinned wolfishly at the ceiling.

Three days to flirt with her. Even if he didn't get anywhere, there was nothing he liked better than the chase. His head full of blue eyes and those lovely dimples, he was soon asleep.

…

He woke early, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of a piss. Coming out of the bathroom, he saw Sookie on the landing and changed his mind about going back to bed. He met her at the stairs. She was tying a fluffy pink dressing gown over her pyjamas. The dressing gown came to her knees. The pyjamas were red flannel and covered with tiny white kittens. Cute. He'd slept in a ratty old t-shirt, but he'd thrown on some lounge pants when he got up, so he was decent enough.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hey. Sleep well?”

“Like the dead.” He ran a hand through his hair, his scalp protesting as his fingers snagged in tangles. Her eyes had followed the movement and she turned away, hiding a grin. Shit, his hair must be a mess. Oh well. A yawn snuck up on him. “Christ, I need coffee.”

“Me too. Coffee strong enough to raise Lazarus, as we say back home.” She started down the stairs. “That damn bell on the roof didn't wake you up, then?”

“No, didn't hear a thing. But that explains why I dreamt I was out on the boat.” He squinted out of the nearest window. The sky was a dirty grey. “Must've been windy last night.”

“I reckon so.” As they crossed the chilly entrance hall, Sookie nodded at the floor and remarked, “Someone hasn't learnt to wipe their feet.”

There was a line of muddy splotches on the tiles. Eric put a bare foot alongside one of them. “Too small to be mine.”

“Lord, aren't your toes cold?” Sookie gasped, wrapping her dressing gown tighter. “I'm shivering just looking at them.”

“Nope. I'm Swedish. Our blood is like anti-freeze.” She had woolly boots on. In the house. _I_ _f she's_ _really_ _that_ _cold, I_ _can think of_ _half a dozen_ _ways_ _to_ _warm her up._

“You don't have much of an accent.”

“I've lived here for ten years,” he said absently, lost in a particularly distracting daydream.

“Do you go back to home to Sweden often?”

That killed his mood. “No,” he said curtly, waving her into the kitchen ahead of him. He was saved from having to explain his abruptness by her sharp exclamation.

The place was a mess. The foil containers that had been neatly stacked on the draining board last night were scattered all over. On the table, on the floor, everywhere. Sookie began picking up the ones nearest the door. Eric circled the room picking up the rest.

“Helvete!” he cursed.

Sookie's head bobbed up on the other side of the table. “You okay there, buddy?”

“Just some water on the floor.” There was a puddle in front of the sink and he'd stood in it. It was bloody freezing. Grabbing a towel, he dried his foot and then mopped the floor with it.

Sookie came over and added her stack of containers to the ones he'd put down on the side. “Did someone leave a tap on?” she asked.

“I don't think so.” The sink was dry, but there was water puddled behind it, on the window sill. “Looks like the window blew open last night,” he said, reaching over. He tugged on the latch, pushed against the frame. It was shut fast. “That's odd. It must've blown shut again.”

He dried the window sill, hung the wet towel on the cooker and turned around. Sookie was staring at the fireplace. She was pale, and when he touched her arm, she jumped.

“Look,” she said weakly, pointing.

There was water there too, on the stones in front of the hearth. A big patch of it, more damp than puddle, like it had been there a while and had time to dry. Eric went over and ducked his head under the mantel, twisting round to peer up the chimney. He couldn't see a thing. No square of sky, only darkness. Must be a bend up there.

“Rainwater, I expect.” His voice echoed weirdly and he ducked back out. “It's an old chimney. They sometimes leak when it's gusty.”

“Right,” Sookie murmured, still pale. She seemed agitated, her eyes darting between the window and the hearth. “I… I'll just take these out to the trash,” she said, grabbing the foil containers and hurrying to the back door.

“They go in the green bin,” he called after her as she slid the deadbolt back and vanished without a word.

What was that all about? Why the big rush?

Women, always such a mystery. Shrugging, he bent down and touched the wet flagstones. Ice-cold, just like the water by the sink. There was an odour too, faint but there. Musty, earthy… He knew that smell. What was it? He sniffed at his fingertips, but he couldn't place it. The shape of the damp patch was oddly familiar too. He tilted his head, eyes slitting as he looked at it.

Hm. A dog, maybe? As if a dog, wet from the rain, had sprawled in front of the fire to dry, like his grandmother's dogs had done when he was a boy. A biggish dog, a labrador or a collie perhaps. But he'd just watched Sookie unbolt the door, so there was no way a dog that size could have got in here last night. A cat, yes. A cat might climb in an open window, but not a dog.

It didn't make sense. At a loss, he went over to the kettle and got started on the coffee.

“Smells good,” Sookie said when she came back in, her cheeks rosy. It was a good look on her.

“Ah, but is it strong enough to raise Lazarus?” he asked, handing her a cup before he added milk and sugar to his. She liked it black. He'd paid attention to that yesterday.

“Mm,” she said, breathing in the fumes before she took a sip. “Oh yes, that definitely hits the spot.”

“Were there any muddy footprints by the door?” he asked over his shoulder as he rummaged in the fridge. He was still puzzling over that water.

“Um, I don't think so.”

Eggs, cheese, smoked salmon, spinach. He could work with that. He piled them all on the side. “Stan left his phone in the van last night. Maybe he went out to fetch it.” That would explain the mess. It would be typical of Stan to traipse water everywhere and leave a window open.

“Maybe.” She didn't sound convinced.

“What d'you fancy for breakfast?” he asked, getting a frying pan out. “Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, or cheese and spinach omelette?”

“You cook?”

He raised an eyebrow at her surprise. “It's only eggs. A soufflé, now that would be impressive.”

She laughed. “Yes, it would be. I guess I'm just used to Southern men. They don't cook unless it's outdoors and on a grill, as a rule. Heck, I reckon the limit of Jason's culinary ability this time in the morning is microwaving last night's pizza. Um, omelette for me, please. It's too early for raw fish.”

“It's never too early if you're Swedish.” Eric opened cupboards, looking for a bowl. “Has nobody told your brother that the ladies love a man who cooks them breakfast?”

“I guess not. So... Should I help, or would that ruin your strategy?”

“Depends. Is it working?” She got all flustered at that, so he flashed her a big cheesy grin.

“Oh, hush you,” she said, smacking his side.

That only made his grin widen, but he just said, “You could beat the eggs if you like.”

…

Eric was finishing his second plateful when Stan arrived, fully dressed. Sookie was at the sink, washing dishes. They said their good mornings, but once Sookie's back was turned, Stan gave Eric a death-glare.

“You're up early,” he groused. “Set an alarm, did you?”

_Bite me,_ Eric mouthed and got a raised middle finger in reply. Out loud he said, “There's eggs, but no bacon.”

Stan groaned. “Why do we let Pam do the shopping?”

“Because she doesn't go out for milk and come back with a goat.”

Sookie made a noise halfway between a giggle and a snort. Eric got up, put his plate in the sink and grabbed a tea-towel so he could lay claim to the spot next to her before Stan did. _You snooze, you lose,_ _pal_ _._ Picking up a plate to dry he said, “That reminds me, Mr. Forgetful. Did you go out to the van to get your phone last night?”

“No,” Stan said, “and how many times do I have to tell you, I didn't forget that milk. The police had run out and they confiscated it for their tea. Besides, you loved that goat.”

“Not as much as you did. I didn't tie a bow around its neck.”

“Oh yeah? You made her that lovely kennel, though.”

“She couldn't stay in the house, Stan. Even if you did want to sleep with her.”

“Come here and say that, you lanky arsehole,” Stan challenged, grabbing the wet towel from earlier. Their banter quickly descended into a towel-flicking contest, with Sookie alternating between telling them to cut it out and giggling at them.

“Boys, boys, boys,” Pam drawled from the doorway, Tray and Amelia right behind her. “Must you act like children. You're showing me up.”

“You spoil all our fun,” Stan complained, dropping the towel on the side and going over to the kettle.

“I was just fixing to throw water on the pair of them,” Sookie said, still chuckling.

Pam snorted. “That only works on dogs. These two need a firmer hand. A fire extinguisher, perhaps. Or a whip.”

“No water fights in here,” Eric warned as he went back to drying dishes. “I've already had to dry the floor once this morning. Did anyone come down here last night and open the window?”

Everyone said no and Amelia asked what had happened. As Eric explained, he noticed how quiet Sookie had gone. She was wiping the same bit of the sink over and over too.

“Wow, that's really freaky,” Amelia said. “But freaky things always seem to happen around— Ow! Tray, that was my toe!”

“Oh sorry, darlin'. Want me to kiss it better?”

“No, you great lump! Just watch where you put those size nines in future.”

Stan, who was at the sink filling the kettle, peered up at the window. “Nothing freaky about it. That's an old frame. It probably leaks like a sieve, and with all that rain last night… Who's for a cuppa?”

“What's for breakfast?” Tray asked. “My stomach is eatin' itself.”

“Eric makes a great omelette,” Sookie said, wringing out the cloth she'd been using. “If y'all don't mind, I'm gonna go grab a shower.”

And she was out of there like a shot. Eric got roped into making breakfast for everyone else, his questions about the mysterious water forgotten once Pam began bossing everyone around. Or, as she called it, outlining their plans for the day.

Later, when he came back downstairs after a shower of his own, he stopped to look at those dirty marks on the tiles in the entrance hall. They didn't look quite right for shoe- or foot-prints, not unless whoever had left them had been absolutely dripping wet. They weren't the right shape to be a dog's either, although the stride was short enough.

That 'mouse' he and Stan heard last night… Hadn't it sounded _wet?_ He tried to remember. A s _quelch-_ _squelch-_ _squelch_ , like wet footfalls?

No, no, that couldn't be right. If it had been anything bigger than a mouse, anything big enough to leave those marks, they'd have seen it, even with all the shadows. The whisky had obviously scrambled his hearing along with his brain. But if it wasn't squelching, maybe it was dripping. The roof was certainly old enough to spring a leak. He peered up at the rafters.

“What's up, big man?” Stan asked as he came thudding down the stairs.

Eric, still looking up, waved vaguely at the floor. “I think the roof might be leaking in here.”

Stan looked at the mud on the tiles, grunted, then craned his neck too. “I can't see anything, but it wouldn't surprise me if there's a slate missing up there. This bit of the roof is sagging pretty badly.” He slapped Eric on the back. “Come on, big man, let's go. The light's perfect out there. You can play detective later.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

That morning was dull and overcast, but the forecast promised worse to come so they got the outside shots of the manor done while the rain held off. Sookie was a natural; she and Eric filmed three segments to camera with none of the endless retakes Sophie-Ann had needed. Next on the schedule was some background. Pam had found them two locals who knew a bit about the manor and were willing to talk on camera.

Pam wasn't around, though. She and Amelia had gone on a supply run in the American's black cab and they weren't back. So everyone else piled into the van, and off they went.

Their first interviewee was Miss Harrington, a retired lady with an interest in local history. She lived in the village, in a thatched cottage with a straggling red rose growing above the door. (Sookie gushed over the place, declaring it so picturesque it belonged on a candy box.) Miss Harrington, who insisted they call her Lydia, had laid on elevenses. That immediately endeared her to Stan and Tray, who helped themselves to tea and cake as if they hadn't eaten for a week.

Lydia, despite her grey hair and wrinkles, was as sharp as a tack. And nowhere near as straight-laced as her sensible clothes, delicate porcelain tea-cups and perfect Victoria sponge suggested, as Eric soon found out when she insisted he be the one to interview her. She flirted outrageously with him between takes, her hand landing on his knee more times than he cared to count.

But he found himself playing up to it, enjoying every minute. She was very witty, and he liked the way the attention made her eyes sparkle with mischief.

Lydia was a font of knowledge when it came to the manor, but unfortunately most of what she told them was dry historical fact: which aristocratic family owned it originally; how it passed into a second family by marriage, when all the sons in one generation died and a daughter inherited for the first time; how two generations later the estate was broken up and the manor was parcelled off to a younger son. All very interesting, but not quite what they were after.

“What about local legends?” Eric asked. “Halloween is coming up, any ghost stories?”

“Well,” she said, pausing for a sip of Earl Grey. “Some say a black dog stalks the village churchyard at night.”

“Oh, really?” he said politely, thinking: _What utter bollocks._ “Is it like a Barguest, does it herald a death?”

“Oh no, nothing so common. But its bark is much worse than its bite, apparently. The locals say hearing it after midnight makes the flesh rot clean off your bones.”

“That's rather gruesome.”

“It is, isn't it?” She chuckled. “If you ask me, it's just stuff and nonsense to stop teenagers hanging around after it gets dark, drinking cheap cider and misbehaving on the gravestones.” She winked at Eric and patted his knee for the umpteenth time. “You know the sort of misbehaving I mean, I'm sure. I'm afraid our vicar is a bit of a prude, you see. Has a bee in his bonnet about that kind of thing on hallowed ground. But you can hardly blame the youngsters, there's not a lot for them to do around here. And I remember what it's like to have nowhere to go courting.”

That wasn't quite what they needed either. Lydia couldn't remember anything else related to the manor, so Eric thanked her for her time and they wrapped up. In the van, Stan ribbed him mercilessly about his geriatric admirer, but Sookie came to his defence, pointing out that you caught more flies with honey.

Being friendly, as she put it, had certainly kept Lydia talking. They were running late for the second interview, with a farmer whose land neighboured the manor. Sookie did this one, in the farmyard with a rusty tractor as a backdrop.

“That place is bad luck,” Dave Pendle said, shifting from wellied foot to wellied foot. He was middle-aged, harassed, and he'd told them twice that he could only spare five minutes. “Been on the market for twelve years. Had a buyer lined up three times, but the sale kept falling through at the last minute.”

“Has the place been empty all that time?” Sookie asked.

“No. About six years back they tried renting it out, but the tenants never stayed long. Last one was some artist up from London. Didn't last a fortnight, the soft bugger. Turned up his nose at the shitty internet speed we get out here, complained about strange noises in the night, things moving around. Then we had a bad storm and he left with his tail between his legs. Since then, it's been a holiday let. But we're not really on the tourist trail, see, so it mostly stands empty. It's a shame, big house like that going to waste.”

“It is,” Sookie agreed. “It's a lovely old place.” She glanced at Tray to confirm he'd got all that on camera, then she touched the farmer's arm and gave him a dazzling smile. “The thing is, Dave — you don't mind me calling you that, do you? — we heard a rumour the place was haunted. And this is going out on Halloween so a nice juicy ghost story would be just the thing. Have you heard anything like that?”

After a few ahs and ums, he offered, “You could talk to old Jack, I suppose. He's not right fond of strangers, but he's lived here all his life and he likes nothing better than bending someone's ear with one of his tall tales. Some of them go back to his grandfather's time, so he says. Most of 'em are cock and bull, mind. He's working the top field today.”

One short drive up a bumpy farm track later, Stan parked the van beside an iron gate tied shut with a frayed loop of orange rope. This was the place. They got out and Eric leant over the gate, peering round the overgrown hedge. Halfway up the field, there was a copse of pine trees and around it the hedge gave way to a wooden fence. A man in a flat cap and a grubby waxed jacket was working on it, hammering at a fence-plank. When Tray slammed the van door, he glanced over at Eric, scowled, and went back to his work.

“That has to be him,” Eric said as Sookie joined him at the gate. “He doesn't look too happy to see us, does he?”

Stan called over from the back of the van, “You two go charm him into talking to us, then. We'll get the camera ready.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Eric held the gate open for Sookie and made sure it was shut after them. No need to annoy the old codger more than they had to; he looked cantankerous enough already. The grass in the field was long and wet, and dotted with mole-hills.

As Sookie stepped over a third pile of loose dirt she muttered, “Wore the wrong damn shoes. I need me some of those boots.”

She was looking enviously at the old man's wellies, slick and shiny from the wet grass. Eric looked down at her feet. She'd worn sensible shoes with a smart skirt suit today, but the shoes were the kind with a strap, cut low over the toes, and her tights — or stockings, dare he hope? — were already soaked.

Sookie called out a hello as they approached and Old Jack favoured them with another scowl. His face was sallow, the jumper under his jacket holed and baggy. A thin, hand-rolled cigarette dangled from his mouth.

“You lost?” he shouted, his voice rough and gravelly. “This 'ere is private land.”

“Mr Pendle sent us,” Sookie called back. “Could we have a moment of your time please, sir?”

“Hold yer horses.” Grumbling to himself, Jack fished a nail from his pocket and bent down. He picked something small and grey up from the wet grass, then held it and the nail against the fence with one age-spotted hand, the hammer loose and ready in the other. As he swung, Eric realised what the small grey thing was.

It was dead mole.

The hammer struck, driving the long hard nail through its soft body with a sickening crunch. A dozen more corpses, Eric saw now, were pinned to the fence in a neat line, little limbs stiff and velvet fur bloodied. Jack stepped back to admire his handiwork, his hand under his flat cap, scratching at his scalp. Rusty steel traps were piled carelessly at his feet, empty now they'd done their brutal work.

“Are those traps legal?” Eric asked in a tight voice.

Jack looked at him. His cheeks were ruddy, broken veins showing through salt-and-pepper stubble. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, leaned forward and spat, very deliberately, on the grass. “Dave hires me to get rid of vermin. You got a problem with that?”

“No, sir,” Sookie said quickly, putting a hand Eric's arm. “We're filming up at the manor house, a local history piece. Dave said you'd be the one to talk to about that.”

He squinted at her. “You American?”

“Yessir, I sure am. Louisiana born and raised.”

He grunted. “I'll talk to you, but not your friend there. He can piss right off.”

Eric opened his mouth, but Sookie clamped down sharply on his arm and said sweetly, “That's real kind of you, sir. Eric, honey, why don't you go on back to the van. Stan's on his way.”

Eric looked back towards the gate. Stan was indeed on his way, lugging the camera up the slope towards them.

“I'll want paying, mind,” Jack said slyly. “For my time, like.”

“Of course,” Sookie said, giving Eric a little shove of dismissal. “I think we can run to, say, twenty pounds?”

“Thirty, and you're on.”

…

Tray was rooting through a bag of equipment, but he looked up when Eric's back slammed against the side of the van. “You okay there, Stretch?

Eric grunted an entirely unconvincing yes and yanked his cigarettes out of his pocket, half-crushing the packet. Cursing, he uncrumpled it and offered it to Tray. Tray took one, looking amused. Eric flicked his lighter and they both bent over the flame.

Tray's cigarette caught first. Stepping back he said, “Stan and Sookie doing this one, huh? You got it bad if them just filming together is chapping your ass this much.”

Eric inhaled too fast and choked. “Shit,” he wheezed, coughing up half a lung while Tray laughed at him, the bastard. “It's not that,” he explained once he caught his breath. “ _Old Jack_ is killing moles up there.”

Tray was nonplussed. “They protected or something?”

“No, but you're meant to use humane traps. The ones he's got belong in the fucking dark ages.” Eric realised he was waving his cigarette around, dropping ash everywhere, so he stuck it in his mouth, dragging on it in the hope the nicotine would calm him down. It didn't. “Bet he gets paid by the corpse,” he mumbled round it. “He's nailing them to the fucking fence.”

“Yeah? Didn't figure you for the squeamish type.”

Eric snorted. “I'm not. I've autopsied beached whales without losing my lunch, and you don't want to know what that smells like.” He tried to shut up then, he really did, but the words just wouldn't stay in. “It's not the gore, it's the cruelty of it. And the sheer bloody waste. This is pasture, the moles aren't hurting it. Shit, they're probably conditioning the soil. Didn't seem to bother Sookie, though. Most girls—”

“Sookie ain't most girls,” Tray all but growled, a fiercely protective look in his eyes.

“No, she isn't,” Eric agreed quickly, not want to antagonise him further. Tamping his anger down, he tried to explain. “It's pretty grisly, though. Girls are usually horrified by the tiniest bit of blood.”

Tray shrugged. “Back home everyone and his dog hunts. Sookie's probably helped Jason gut a deer or two in her time.”

“Not many girls here do that,” Eric conceded, and then lapsed into silence so he could concentrate on calming the fuck down. It took almost the whole cigarette. “So,” he said, blowing the last of the smoke out in a slow stream, “I'm that obvious?”

“Oh, I've seen the Stackhouse effect before,” Tray said, chuckling again. “I recognise the symptoms. If it helps, she got a real pinched look this morning when you were flirting with Mrs Robinson.”

“Mrs...?” Eric got the film reference and smirked. “Did she now.”

“Yeah. But you didn't hear that from me.”

Tray wandered over to the gate and Eric followed. They leant on it, elbow to elbow, smoking a second cigarette while they watched Sookie work. She was charming the socks off Jack. Giving him those warm smiles, the dimples, the lot. It took Eric a while to notice, but whereas Stan was positioned so Jack's gruesome trophies were in shot, Sookie was standing where she didn't have to look at them. Maybe she wasn't so okay with senseless slaughter after all.

But he couldn't tell; not a trace of discomfort showed on her face.

“She's a good actress,” he commented. Good enough to fool a man into thinking she liked him when she didn't, and how he wished that thought hadn't crossed his mind.

“Yeah, she is.” Tray side-eyed him as if he knew just what he was thinking. “She had to be. She's real bright, too bright for that podunk town she grew up in. Took a lot of shit about getting above herself when she got into law school, and a lot of gloating about her being no better than her raisin' when she dropped out. But you'd never know it to see her talking to folks there. She won't give them the satisfaction.”

“Sounds like a lovely place.”

“Oh yeah, real charming. High school was hell for her. See, Sookie was a little old-fashioned. On account of being raised by her grandmother, I guess. And you know how teenagers are. They called her every name under the sun. Stuck-up, Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes, Crazy Sookie… She didn't help herself none, either. Made friends with too many folk whose faces don't fit, if you get my drift.” He gave Eric a crooked smile and shifted his forearm on the gate. “Like the tattooed ex-con who decided to start over after his divorce by opening a repair shop in Bumfuck, Nowhere.”

Eric looked down, saw Tray's arm was covered in ink, and understood he was talking about himself. Ah. “You persuaded some poor girl to marry you?” he asked.

Tray laughed. “Like that's the question burning your tongue. Bar fight. Broke my hand on some redneck's skull, but the fucker came off worse. I was twenty, had a hot temper back then. Judge wasn't impressed when I sassed her, gave me six months. Learnt my lesson, though. Stayed out of trouble since.”

“That how you ended up as Sookie's bodyguard?”

“Kinda. I also know how to plant a tracker on a vehicle so it won't be found. You learn some useful things in County.”

Eric let that pass without comment and instead asked, “How does the ex-wife feel about Amelia?” There was a good ten years between Amelia and Tray, maybe more. No woman liked her ex picking a younger model.

“She ain't got cause to complain. She moved on quicker than I did.” Tray stubbed his cigarette out on the gate and flicked the butt into the hedge. Eric winced, but didn't say anything. “Hurt like a bitch at the time, but things are pretty amicable now. She lets me see the kid whenever I want.”

“You've got a kid too?”

Tray pulled out a wallet and flipped it open to a photo of a boy with dark hair. “Name's Cooper. Eleven next month, and already begging me for a dirt bike. He's stoked I'm doing this, you know. Kid thinks everything online is just the coolest.”

…

The light drizzle that had started up was turning to rain as Sookie and Stan came back down the field. Eric had the gate open ready for them. Sookie bundled straight into the van, but Stan got the camera safely stowed before he hopped behind the wheel. Tray had called shotgun, so he was up front already. Rain streaked the windows. In the back, Eric dug an old towel out of a holdall and handed it to Sookie.

“Thanks,” she said, patting at her hair with it. “We got that done just in time.”

“Get anything good?”

“Ugh, my feet are soaked.” She bent down to unbuckled her shoes, her hair hanging over her face, her voice muffled. “Old Jack certainly has a tale or two to tell.”

Eric got the distinct impression she was hiding from him.

“Jack's a dirty old lecher,” Stan called over as he started the van. “He was showing off for the pretty girl. I thought he'd never shut up.”

“Me neither,” Sookie said, drying her feet. She dropped the towel on the empty seat between her and Eric, and turned away to rummage in her handbag. Pulling out a packet of wipes, she began to scrub at her face with one. “This make-up of Amelia's is like rubber, I swear.”

She was definitely hiding. His fit of temper must've unsettled her. Fine, he'd give her some space. Eric shifted to look out of the window. Up front, Tray and Stan were deep in discussion. Some boring crap about camera angles.

A couple of minutes passed and Sookie nudged him. “Sorry I shooed you away out there,” she said quietly. “I didn't overstep, did I?”

“No. You did the right thing.” He hadn't liked it, but she had. “I'd have had a go at him if I'd stayed there any longer.”

“At least he wasn't leering at you. I feel like I need a hot shower. Ugh. He was very… _The Hills Have Eyes,_ wasn't he? And those poor little critters. Did you see all that blood? I reckon some of them weren't quite dead when he nailed them up.” She shuddered, balling up the dirty wipe. “I can't abide cruelty like that. There's no call for it.”

So she wasn't unaffected by the plight of those moles, not at all. His disappointment in her melted away, and he didn't stop to wonder why it had been there in the first place, he just told her he admired the way she handled herself.

He meant it, too. She'd certainly done a much better job of hiding her disgust than he had.

…

“Tea's up,” Eric announced, carrying two steaming mugs into the dining room Stan had commandeered as an editing suite. The bare white walls and dusty plastic chandelier were more nineties Yuppie chic than Gothic horror, so it was no good for filming. The table was covered with wires and equipment, and, as expected, Stan was glued to his laptop. He liked to look through the day's footage as soon as he could in case they needed to re-shoot anything.

“Thanks.” Stan pulled off his headphones and gulped some tea down before gesturing at the screen with his cup. “You should watch this.”

It was Sookie's interview with Jack. Eric sat down as the camera panned across the furry bodies hanging on the fence. “Nice,” he said, pulling a face. “We'll have to put up a content warning.”

“Yeah. The lighting was perfect though. Those shadows from the trees make it look even more eerie that it was.” Stan turned up the volume.

On screen, Jack was saying: _“_ _M_ _y granddaddy had_ _this_ _from his granddaddy_ _, but h_ _e swore it were the truth. See, the_ _master_ _back then_ _was a bad '_ _un._ _His name_ _was_ _… Let me get the right of it.”_ _He_ _squinted into the distance. “_ _Richard_ _,_ _Ruddy Richard they called him. But only behind his back, like. Whipped any man_ _that_ _cheeked him_ _raw_ _, he did,_ _w_ _hipped 'em till they bled._ _That's how he got the name, see. Red, ruddy._ _”_ _Jack_ _laughed. It was a hacking laugh, phlegmy and unhealthy._ _“Liked_ _his drink, he did, this Richard. Liked_ _to have his way with the_ _scullery_ _maids,_ _too. Got his just desserts, though. Stupid_ _bugger_ _fell off his horse, broke a leg. It went septic_ _and he kicked the bucket. S_ _low and painful, like. Unlucky_ _Dicky,_ _they called him then.”_

“ _Is that why the manor is unlucky?” Sookie's voice asked from somewhere off-camera._

“ _Oh no, pet. He ain't the one haunting the place. That's some kid.” There was a rustle off-camera and Jack grinned in Sookie's direction. What teeth he had left were stained and chipped, and his eyes gleamed maliciously. “Yeah, a little kid's ghost. My granddaddy saw it once, when he were a lad hisself. Snuck over the wall to scrump apples one night, he did. Swore he saw it walking through the trees, glowing in the moonlight. Frit him half to death. Daft old bugger wouldn't go near the place after dark.”_

“Not bad,” Eric said thoughtfully as Stan hit pause. “We could tie it into that segment on phosphorescent paint, the one Pam wanted to call Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“Or we could link it to that painting of Tray's. But that's not what I wanted you to see.” Stan fiddled with the keyboard, rewinding to Jack's grin. He tapped the screen. “See that? Cruel bastard was enjoying himself at Sookie's expense. As soon as he said the ghost was a kid, she went white as a sheet.”

“What an arsehole. Probably made the whole thing up just to mess with her. ”

Stan looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What, like we messed with her with that tile trick? You're not getting it, Eric. She's no screamer, she doesn't scare easily, but she was really shaken. I think... Well, I think we might have a believer on our hands.”

“With what she does for a living?” Eric scoffed. “I hardly think so.” After what had happened to her Gran, she couldn't believe in… Could she? Okay, so she exposed hoaxers and fraudsters for a living, but he supposed that didn't _actually_ preclude her from believing in spooky shit herself. And she'd definitely been acting strangely that morning, in the kitchen. Ah, shit, maybe she did—

Stan was staring at him, hard. Eric shifted in his seat and asked irritably, “What?”

“You really like her, don't you, big man? Sorry to rain on your parade.”

“I fancy her, that's all.” He'd barely known her two days for Christ's sake, why was Stan giving him that look? “So do you. It's no big deal.”

“Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that,” Stan muttered, picking up the headphones again. “Well, you've picked worse. And even if she is a few pickles short of a jar, she's only over here for a week. You can hook up with her for a night or two, no harm done.”


	5. Chapter 5

Stan frowned at the screen, muttering in Polish. Eric felt like slapping him for his oh-so-helpful advice about Sookie, but he didn't have long to stew over it, or over what Sookie did or didn't believe in, because Tray stuck his head round the door and said:

“Hey, Stretch. I need help carrying shit. Know where can I find me a real man?”

“Hilarious,” Eric said drily. He patted Stan on the shoulder as he got up. “Better stay here, short round. Sounds like this is a job for grown men, not munchkins.”

“Yeah, you fuck off, Eric,” Stan said cheerfully, “and leave the real work to me. You know, the stuff that requires a brain. Because mine hasn't been deprived of oxygen like yours.”

Tray snorted. “The air ain't that rarefied up where we are, short-ass.”

“Doesn't need to be,” Stan called as they left. “Not when you've had the bends.”

“The bends?” Tray asked Eric. “You scuba dive or something?”

“When I get the chance, but he means the medical research I volunteered for at uni. Spent a fortnight in a pressure chamber.”

“Ain't that dangerous?”

“Not really. It was all controlled. It paid well too, and I needed to eat.”

Tray looked Eric up and down as they crossed the entrance hall. “Did it pay as well as stripping? 'Cause Sookie has a cousin who makes real good money at that, and I reckon you're pretty enough to give it a go.”

Eric laughed. “You know, Pam suggested that. But I didn't want to give up my weekends.”

“Pam's pretty wild, ain't she? From what she said last night, she, er, swings both ways. You and her ever…?”

Eric looked over his shoulder, checking no-one was around. “Yeah, once. But keep that under your hat. Stan doesn't know.”

“Will do. That didn't make things weird between you?”

“No. We knew each other too well to fall out over stupid shit by then. And we were drunk. Very drunk. Vodka shots were involved, and…” Eric spread his hands, grinning at the memory. “What can I say? It was a crazy, crazy night.”

Tray looked like he had a dozen more questions stuck in his throat, but he kept them to himself. They got to the room they were using to store equipment and he gestured at some cases. “Boss lady wants those shifting upstairs.”

“Pam isn't the boss. She's just bossy. There's a difference.”

“Oh yeah? Sure seems like she gives all the orders to me.” They each grabbed a case and Tray held the door open with his foot. “What did they want you do in a pressure chamber anyway?”

“Eat, sleep, exercise. I would've been bored to death if they hadn't let me study in there.”

“Hell, you studied? The way Stan tells it, all you three did at college was party and chase tail.”

Eric smirked at him. “Oh, I partied alright. Would've failed first year if I hadn't been locked in that chamber with a stack of books. So it worked out for the best actually. And I didn't get the bends, whatever Stan says. I just had a terrible headache for three days.”

…

Lugging equipment to the spots they'd chosen for that evening's filming kept Eric and Tray busy for the next hour. The master bedroom had a high four-poster bed with a dusty canopy and faded velvet curtains, perfect for the piece on sleep paralysis they had planned. No-one was sleeping in the gloomy room, which had tiny windows and dark oak panelling not just on the walls but also on the low ceiling. Of course, Stan had demanded a shit-ton of extra lighting and guess who had to ferry it up there?

At least the study-cum-library was downstairs. It was as fantastic as Pam said: worn leather chairs, shelves full of musty leather-bound books, old maps hanging over an even older mahogany desk, and two crossed swords mounted over the huge fireplace, on the exposed stone. Pam suggested lighting the fire and some candles, 'for atmosphere'. Stan bitched, but was overruled. Candlelight wasn't that hard to work with. He'd done it before, and the phosphorescent paint would show up great.

They had most of the lights set up by the time Stan joined them. Like the pain in the arse he was, he had them test all the electronics and the special effects they had planned. Then Pam arrived and had them run through one of her interminable checklists too, so that was the whole afternoon gone.

Eric carefully didn't ask where Sookie was, but Stan did. Pam said they didn't need her, that she and Amelia were working on a project of their own. The sun had long set when Pam finally looked at her watch and declared it was time to eat.

They went downstairs to find the others. As they started down the corridor that led to the kitchen, Stan asked, “Anyone fancy Chinese? There's a place that delivers.”

“Oh, we ain't gonna need takeout.” Tray sniffed loudly. “Smell that? Sookie's treating us to some down home cooking.”

Something did smell delicious. They all crowded into the kitchen. Sookie and Amelia had been busy. There was a mound of fried chicken on the table big enough to feed six hungry men, along with a bunch of side dishes and some pitchers of beer.

“This all looks lovely,” Pam said, with a genuinely warm smile for once. “You didn't have to do this. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” Amelia laughed. “This was all Sookie's idea. I just did as I was told.”

“It was no trouble,” Sookie said, taking off an apron. “Consider it a thank-you for inviting us to England. Y'all take a seat now, there's plenty to go around. That's buttermilk chicken, and those are collard greens — y'all call them spring greens here, apparently — and there's cornbread and gravy. Sweet tea and beer, too. Dig in folks.”

It was just like the first night. Good food, good conversation, plenty of friendly banter and joking around. Except this time Stan was quicker off the mark and he nabbed the seat next to Sookie. Eric sat across from her. She kept glancing his way, sending him little smiles as she watched him stuff his face.

The chicken was so good, he kept going back for more. After his fourth piece, he said, “You have to give me the recipe for this. It's fucking delicious.”

It was the first thing he'd said to her since they got back to the house, but Sookie just laughed, light and easy. “Sure, but credit where credit is due. It's Gran's recipe, not mine.”

Tray gasped in horror. “You're giving the famous Stackhouse chicken recipe to a _foreigner_? Jason's gonna pitch a fit.”

“Jason can go hang. He gets a say over who gets Gran's recipes the day he starts cooking for himself.”

“That'll be the day hell freezes over,” Amelia scoffed. “I can't believe he still brings his laundry round to you.”

“That shithead don't deserve a sister,” Tray agreed, snagging another piece of chicken and a big slab of cornbread. “All those women he has at his place, one of them should be washing his shirts.”

Sookie pulled a face. “I reckon laundry might be beyond Jason's company, Tray. Some of 'em can't tell a belt from a skirt.”

“Boy should just install a revolving door. He ain't picked a keeper yet.”

Amelia laughed. “He isn't looking for one, silly. He's still sowing oats.” She grinned at Tray. “Like you did, before you got too old.”

“Hush your mouth, woman. Or I'll show you how not old I am.”

“Tray Dawson,” Sookie said sternly, “don't you talk nasty at the dinner table. Folks are eating.”

“Some of us are,” Stan grumbled, eyeing the rapidly diminishing pile of food on Tray's plate with envy. Most of the serving bowls were already empty and he asked plaintively, “Is there any more chicken?”

“No, sweetie. I'm sorry.” Sookie patted his hand, then got up and went to the oven. “But if y'all left room, there's dessert.”

It was peach cobbler. Stan slathered his first piece with ice-cream, took one mouthful and moaned. Sliding his chair back, he dropped to one knee and grabbed Sookie's hand.

“Marry me,” he said earnestly.

Pam and Eric, who'd seen him pull this stunt before, burst out laughing at the horrified look on Sookie's face. Once she got over the shock, she started to smile too. “Quit fooling around,” she said, trying to take back her hand. “It's only cobbler. It's nothing special.”

“Only cobbler? Only?! That, you wonderful woman, is a slice of pure heaven.” He fluttered his eyelashes and gave her puppy-eyes. “Go on. Say yes. You know you wanna.”

“Don't do it,” Pam called out. “He's worse than your brother. Wouldn't even know what a washing machine is.”

Laughing, Sookie freed her hand. “I appreciate the offer, Stan, but I'm gonna have to say no.”

“That's what they all say. But I had to ask.” Stan sighed dramatically as he got up. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

…

Eric was elbow deep in hot soapy water, washing glasses. Tray and Pam were drying. Sookie was scraping chicken bones into the bin. Stan was still at the table, the lazy git, teasing Amelia about some New Age hippy shit she'd just come out with. Crystal healing or some rubbish, Eric wasn't really listening.

“Here,” Sookie said, handing him a stack of dirty plates. She grabbed the bowl of buttermilk from the side. “I'll get rid of this.”

“Thanks,” he said, dumping the plates in the sink. As he wiped them clean, he kept an eye on Sookie's reflection in the dark window. She was flitting around, tidying up what little food was left, wiping the table down. He nudged Tray and said quietly, “Does she ever sit still?”

“Nope. She's a hard worker, our Sookie.”

Eric liked that about her. He watched her reflection until Tray nudged him back and gave him a look that told him he was being obvious again.

Clearing up didn't take long. When it was done, Pam clapped her hands. “Right, people,” she said, in her sergeant-major's voice. “Fifteen minutes until show-time. Filming starts at eight on the dot.”

The room emptied, everyone jumping to go get ready except for Eric, who slipped on his boots and grabbed his coat. Pam whined at him, but she could just chill. He wanted a smoke and it took him five minutes tops to get camera-ready.

It was raining outside, a slow dripping rain. He flipped up his hood, lit a fag and huddled against the side of the house to smoke it, thinking he really should quit. After Christmas, maybe. Just then Sookie appeared in the kitchen window. She was a vision, her hair haloed by the light behind her, and he sighed.

She really _was_ lovely. And Stan was right. He did like her, very much.

She peered out into the darkness. Towards the trees, not in his direction, so he didn't think she'd seen him. Biting her lip, too. The things he'd like to do with... She glanced over her shoulder, back at the room behind her, and then she disappeared briefly. Back at the window again, she leaned over the sink to fiddle with something on the windowsill, giving him an especially nice view of her chest. Then she was gone.

There was something furtive about the whole thing.

The kitchen was deserted when he went back inside, and he couldn't resist looking around the sink to see what she'd been up to. It only took a moment to spot what was out of place. On the windowsill, tucked in the corner behind the washing-up liquid and a pot of utensils that had been over by the kettle earlier, was a pale green saucer. On it was a slice of bread. It was wet when he touched it. Soaked in buttermilk, by the smell.

That was odd. Maybe there was another recipe she wanted to show off tomorrow, one that needed pre-soaked bread. But why hide it, why the sneaking about?

He went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water to take up to his room. As he shut the door, he spotted that same pale green again, over in the fireplace. He went to look. Another saucer of bread and buttermilk, tucked in the corner of the hearth, behind the grate. Stranger and stranger.

But he didn't have time to dawdle. It was five to eight already and Pam would have his balls if he held them up. He took the stairs two at a time. In his room, he changed his t-shirt for a smart shirt, combed his hair and tied it back, and smeared some gunk on his face so he wouldn't look too pale on-camera.

Ready in five. Eat that, Ravenscroft.

Long strides took him rapidly down the hallway, but he stopped abruptly before he got to the stairs. Someone was on the half-landing below him, talking in a low, agitated voice. Sookie, to be precise. He hung back out of sight, eavesdropping shamelessly.

“…water definitely didn't get there by itself,” she was saying.

“Ah, hell.” That was Tray's deep rumble. “I was hoping nothing freaky would happen while we were here.”

“You and me both, sugar. But with a house this old, it was always a risk.”

“Don't mean I ain't sorry about it, though. How're you holding up, darlin'?”

“Oh, just peachy.” She sounded distinctly annoyed. “I did some research this afternoon though, and I'm, um, conducting a little experiment. If I'm right about what it is, it should leave us alone tonight.”

“Sookie!” That was Amelia, voice like a foghorn, calling from somewhere downstairs. “Will you hurry up, girl! I need to fix your hair.”

“Alright, alright. I'm coming.”

Eric waited for Sookie and Tray to clear the stairs, kicking himself for listening in. If he hadn't just seen those saucers he wouldn't have done it, but he had, and his curiosity had got the better of him.

And curiosity led to burnt fingers, as his Mormor was fond of telling him. His grandmother was the only adult who would patiently answer his endless 'but why?'s when he was a kid. She must have warned him a thousand times that curiosity like his was a wonderful thing, but sometimes it would take him places he didn't want to go and he'd better learn to deal with getting burnt.

And this...

Was a shitty way to find out Sookie wasn't as perfect as she seemed.

But it did explain the saucers of bread and milk. She'd obviously left them out to placate whatever spirit she thought had caused all that mess this morning. A brownie, a poltergeist, whatever. All nonsense, the lot of them. Stan was right, she _was_ —

Gullible. That was a kinder word. Or, to put it Tray's terms, not a keeper.

Fuck. What did he expect, though? She'd been raised by a woman who believed mediums really could speak to the dead. And, when you scratched the surface, nearly everybody believed in some paranormal thing or other. Ghosts, psychic abilities, possession, twins who could feel each other's pain when they were miles apart… There was always something that even the most rational, sensible, level-headed person admitted to believing in, once you got them talking.

Utter tripe, all of it, all the stories people told themselves as a distraction from the emptiness within and without. Like all that bollocks about true love. That wasn't real either.

…

Eric could act just as well as Sookie when he put his mind to it, so his disappointment with what he'd found out about her didn't show that evening. He treated her just the same as he always had: friendly, bordering on flirtatious. Sookie seemed at ease with him too. Had a warm smile for him when he walked in, laughed at his jokes, flirted back when they were off-camera.

An hour in, it stopped being an act for Eric.

He was really flirting with her; he couldn't help himself. But it was okay to have a little fun, right? It couldn't get serious, anyway. She'd be back in the States soon enough, as Stan had so kindly pointed out. Anything they started wouldn't last beyond the weekend.

There were a few technical hitches, like always, but for the most part filming went smoothly. They got the segment about that painting of Tray's done, most of the piece on phosphorescent paint, and all of the one on sleep paralysis — that nightmare feeling of waking up with a weight on your chest, an interesting neurological phenomena so universal that it had inspired legends across the globe. The Swedes blamed it on the spirit of a damned woman called a _mare_ , the Turkish on a _jinn_ , and African slaves in America called it being _hag-ridden._

That was a lot of fun, because it meant Sookie lying in that four-poster bed, pretending to sleep. Not that the long cotton nightgown she wore was at all revealing, but just seeing her in a bed made Eric's imagination run riot again. By the time they wrapped up, it was midnight and all he wanted to do was get her alone.

All the joking around, the smiles, the little touches on his arm, those lovely dimples… It had really got to him.

But their evening wasn't over. Pam — who, as hard as she drove herself and everybody around her, firmly believed all work and no play made life so dull you may as well be dead — had rustled up two bottles of bubbly from somewhere. The fire was still blazing away in the study and they gathered in front of the crackling logs to toast a successful evening's work.

The champagne didn't last long between six. Stan fetched that whisky he'd brought along, Pam the gin and tonic that she'd bought that morning, after she'd found out it was Amelia and Sookie's tipple of choice. The drink flowed. Everyone got a little plastered, a little loud.

Eric leaned against the mantle, listening to Sookie tell a story about Jason and a skunk. Gin and tonic agreed with her. Her cheeks were glowing and she was quite animated.

“He wrestled it around the dirt porch,” she said, waving her glass for emphasis. “Honest to God, wrestled the poor thing. And then – get this! – he got up, covered in scratches like you wouldn't believe, and held it aloft by the back leg. Like the damn thing was a trophy.” She struggled to get the words out around the laughter bubbling in her throat. “Only the business end was pointing right at him.”

“It sprayed him?”

“Yes! Right in the ear! Took a week to get the smell out of his hair!” The laugh she'd been choking back broke free, her eyes lighting up as she began to giggle uncontrollably.

He laughed too; it was impossible not to. She was so alive, so gorgeous. God, he wanted to kiss her.

When she stopped, her eyes were on his and he didn't look away. Tension filled the moment. A good tension, the ' _who's going to make the first move, because we both know this is happening_ ' kind of tension, the kind you get when attraction becomes inescapable, like gravity.

“Hey Eric,” Stan called from the other side of the room, popping their bubble. “What was that place in Devon called again, the one that hot red-head of yours was from?”

“Scratchy Bottom,” Eric said tersely, annoyed at the interruption and the ill-timed mention of an old flame.

“No way!” Amelia said from the sofa. “You're making that up.”

“Bet you a tenner I'm not,” Stan said, grinning.

“Don't take that bet. It's a real place,” Pam said, topping up Amelia's glass with a healthy slug of gin. “There's a Cock-up Bridge near Cambridge, too.”

“Oh my God! Can you imagine writing that on a wedding invitation?” Amelia began to laugh hysterically and Tray, who was sitting beside her and chuckling himself, grabbed at her glass to stop it spilling.

“They're such kids,” Eric whispered to Sookie.

“Yeah, they are, bless their hearts,” she whispered back, and they shared a secret smile.

Shortly after that, the impromptu party broke up. The fire got raked to make sure it was out, glasses and bottles got dumped in the kitchen, good-nights were said, people drifted up to bed. Somehow, in all of that, Eric and Sookie found themselves alone at the top of the stairs. A single lamp was still on, its soft light pooling around them. The hallway was deserted this time, and dark. He walked her to her door.

“I guess this is goodnight,” she said softly.

“Doesn't have to be.” He was still buzzed, the words out before he could second-guess them.

But he didn't regret them. Not when they made her smile so wide he could see it in the dimness. She stepped closer, tilting her head up. Then she was in his arms, warm and enthusiastic, just like the kiss he was lost in.

Her hands tangled in his hair. His wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close. The kiss became fiery, burning the whisky from his blood. He pressed her against the door; she fumbled for the handle. They staggered inside, and still wrapped around her, he nudged the door shut with his foot.

Alone. At bloody last.

He snatched a breath. Moonlight streamed in a low window, falling across the bed.

Another four-poster. His head filled with possibilities. Giddy with them, he kissed her again. She'd untucked his shirt while he was distracted. Her hands slipped under it, one stroking his back while the other dipped down to his arse. God, he loved a woman who knew what she wanted and bold enough to take it! Happily reciprocating, he tugged her blouse free and ran his fingers teasingly along the top of her skirt. Her skin was like silk. His fingers slid up her back, found her bra strap, and began to follow it around her ribs. She moaned into his mouth and kissed him harder. Yes, oh yes, this was—

Sookie went rigid. She pulled away from him, her head jerking to the side, her eyes wide, staring to his right.

He looked, too. There was a mirror on the wall there, above a small fireplace that had been bricked up and tiled over. An oval mirror in a fancy frame, shining bright in the moonlight.

Except it wasn't shining. It was dimming inexplicably, fogging with moisture.

Sookie gasped, and he saw it too – a handprint, right in the centre of the glass. Palm, four fingers, thumb, clear as anything.

The mirror rattled and Eric jumped, biting out a curse. Water began oozing from around the frame. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. It streamed down the wall and over the tiles in the fireplace. A pungent smell filled the room, rank and foul. Sookie shuddered, her arms tightening around Eric when he tried to move, holding him fast.

The mirror shook violently. It banged against the wall, startling a hoarse yell from Eric.

A wet slap. Then another, and another as dark splatters appeared on the wall, out of nowhere. Wet marks, the first besides the mirror, looking like a handprint too. Wet marks, a foot apart, each one closer to them than the last.

The marks reached the corner and turned it. An old copper warming pan with a long handle hung there, on a hook. It clattered against the wall and began to swing from side to side. Wider and wider, like a crazy pendulum, until it leapt off the hook. Sookie clutched at him and screamed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The warming pan landed with an almighty clang. It skittered across the floor, thudded against the wardrobe and came to a stop. Silence filled the room. Eric, ears still ringing from that scream, recovered first. He let Sookie go and moved to investigate.

“Wait!” she hissed, grabbing at his arm. “I don't know if it's—”

Footsteps pounded in the corridor outside. A voice bellowed out her name. The door flew open. The light snapped on. Tray stood there, his hand on the switch, shirtless and his hair wild. He glared at Eric. “I heard a scream. What the fuck did you do?”

Sookie dropped Eric's arm like it was a hot potato. “He didn't do anything! We were just— and then—” Blushing, she pulled her blouse straight and hurriedly re-tucked it. “Something fell off the wall, is all.”

“All? That is not all.” Eric was over the shock now, and building up to being thoroughly pissed off that she'd enticed him into her room just to play another prank. He hid his anger by going over to the mirror. “Congratulations, that was bloody convincing. Pam's going to wring your necks though, so I hope it was worth it.”

“Huh?” Tray looked from him to Sookie. “What the hell is he talking about?”

“You can drop the act,” Eric said, over his shoulder. “I know it was you.”

The handprint was still there, but of course that was easy to fake. It just took a bit of steam to set up. Careful not to touch the glass — they might want to repeat that part of the prank to show the others — he felt around the frame for wires. Nothing. The wall was wet under his fingertips, but not running with water as it had seemed to be in the moonlight. He crouched down in front of the tiled-over fireplace. Water was pooled on the floorboards, but not as much as he expected. Frowning, he peered up at the splatters on the plaster and shook his head.

“Okay, I'm stumped,” he admitted, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood up. “How'd you do it?”

“Ah, fuck,” Tray said. He was looking at Sookie, his face full of pity.

Sookie lifted her eyes off the floor. “Eric, honey,” she said gently, looking at him like he was a loaded gun, “that wasn't a prank.”

“Of course it was,” he said, irritation seeping into his voice. “What else could it be, woman? A ghost? Don't be so bloody stupid!”

Sookie's face fell, and then darkened. She looked ready to take his head off.

Good. His buzz was long gone and he was spoiling for a fight.

But before either he or Sookie could start one Amelia arrived, followed closely by the others. They all crowded into Sookie's room, talking loudly over each other: Amelia asking Sookie if she was okay, Stan grumbling about after-parties he wasn't invited to, and Pam threatening to murder whoever had interrupted her beauty sleep.

The hubbub gave Eric a chance to settle his temper. Once everyone shut up, he explained what had happened, carefully skirting over what exactly he'd been doing in Sookie's room with a vague line about borrowing a book on New Orleans. (She'd mentioned bringing one with her yesterday.) But he wasn't fooling anyone, certainly not Amelia, who winked at him and murmured something to Sookie that earned her a hissed, 'Shut your fool mouth!'

Pam wasn't pleased either, but Eric couldn't care less about the daggers she was shooting his way. He was focused on proving Sookie wrong, and to that end he dragged Stan over to the mirror.

It was a prank. A very clever prank, but just a prank.

But neither of them could work out how the mirror had moved without anyone touching it, or how that bloody warming pan had jumped off the wall. There were no wires, no signs of tampering. They even took the mirror down, but there was nothing behind it, nowhere that water could have come from.

And Tray, obviously uncomfortable at being put on the spot, kept denying he had anything to do with it.

In the end, Stan lost his temper. “Look, man,” he said sharply, pushing his glasses up his nose, “the joke's over. Just tell us how you fucking did it so we can all go to bed.”

“You callin' me a liar, boy?” Tray's accent had thickened, his hands fisting at his sides.

“For fuck's sake,” Pam snapped, getting between them. “Dial down the testosterone, you two.”

“Tray's telling the truth.” Amelia's hands were on her hips and her scowl was just as threatening as Tray's fists. “He didn't have anything to do with this. He'd have told me.”

“Tell you everything, does he?” Stan sneered.

“If you must know,” she snapped, “we were just getting busy when all this kicked off and I've never seen a guy switch gears so fast. Tray came charging in here because he was really worried for Sookie.”

“She's right, he was,” Eric admitted, running a hand through his hair. But if Tray hadn't done this… He stared at the puddle on the floor, something niggling at him. “Pam, did you bring your test kit?”

“Yes, I did.” She turned to Stan and said imperiously, “Fetch it, would you. It's in my room. Bottom of the wardrobe.”

“What am I, your fucking go-fer?” But he went, muttering under his breath all the way.

Pam explained to the Americans that she dabbled in amateur forensics, an interest begun when her mother, a biochemist, gave her a chemistry set for her twelfth birthday, and revived later, at university, when she got interested in the chemistry of beauty products. (Specifically the speedy removal of green hair dye, but Eric didn't think it was a good time to bring that up. Pam had that tight-lipped look that meant she was likely to thump the next person who annoyed her, and he liked his balls where they were.) Stan came back directly, carrying a bulky steel case. Pam opened it, fished out test-tubes and pipettes, and took samples from the floorboard, the tiles, the plaster and the mirror. Then she declared it was far too late for running tests, that would have to wait until morning.

“We should all get back to bed,” she said, giving Eric a pointed look. “Our _own_ beds.”

Eric ignored her. He helped Stan re-hang the mirror, then felt compelled to examine it one more time, going over it inch by inch. Nope, no cracks in the frame, all solid. It wasn't until a throat cleared that he realised the room had emptied. Tray was paused in the doorway, a hand on the knob. He gave Eric a significant look, jerked his head towards the bed and left, pulling the door quietly shut.

Sookie was sitting on the bed, quiet as a church mouse. She'd hardly spoken during the last half hour.

“You're taking this very calmly,” Eric said, watching her reflection in the now-clear mirror. It was safer than facing her. He was tired, frustrated, and thoroughly contemptuous of whatever nonsense she was going to suggest to explain all this. It wouldn't take much to provoke him into saying something at least one of them would regret.

“Yeah, well. I'm used to it.” She scuffed at the carpet with the toe of her shoe. “Freaky things have a habit of happening around me.”

Her tone was bitter, but he didn't have any sympathy left by this point. “Weird shit happens to everybody, Sookie. What you're suggesting… It's impossible, you know it is. There's an explanation for what we saw. A _rational_ explanation.”

Running a hand through his hair, he went over to the warming pan and checked it for the umpteenth time. What was he missing? Why couldn't he make sense of what he'd seen?

“And if there isn't one?” she asked softly from behind him.

“There is. There has to be. Anything else is just … crazy, absolutely crazy.” Pacing back to the mirror, he gestured angrily at it. “This is all fucking crazy!”

The expected argument, the argument that he was half-hoping for as a distraction, didn't come. He glanced back at her, saw that her shoulders had slumped, her head was down, her hands twisting in her lap, and it clicked suddenly.

Ah, shit. Tray had said…

Eric sat on the bed beside her, careful not to crowd her and hating the way she'd shrunk into herself. “What we _saw_ is crazy,” he said firmly, taking her hand off her lap and giving it a squeeze. “You are not.”

Misguided maybe, a little gullible perhaps, but not _actually_ crazy. He knew crazy, real crazy, and she wasn't it, nowhere near.

“Wish I was so sure,” Sookie mumbled, still staring at her feet. But then she sighed and straightened up, her shoulders squaring. “It's not just what we saw, Eric. Which was absolutely crazy, I agree, but I…” She pulled her hand out of his and took a deep breath. “I heard something too. Something I just know you can't explain.”

Why did she look like she expected him to run from the room screaming any second? “What are you saying, Sookie?”

“I heard a voice.” She stuck her chin out and gave him a fierce, defiant look. “It's not the first time either. I hear voices, Eric. Voices no-one else can hear.”

Everything in him protested. “But—”

She raised a hand to cut him off, which was lucky because he had no idea what he was going to say, only that everything in him disagreed vehemently with what she was implying.

“I know, Eric. I know how that sounds. Oh boy, do I know. Hearing people who aren't there. Auditory hallucinations. Delusions. A psychotic break with reality. The only _rational_ explanation for that is a temporal lobe tumour or serious mental illness.”

No way. She didn't fit the profile for anything like that. “You're as sane as I am,” he insisted. “You're grounded, you're not emotionally volatile, you don't have any problems dealing with reality that I've seen. And I hope to God it's not a tumour.”

“Probably not,” she said wryly. “All the scans I had as a kid were clear.”

Eric blinked. “You had scans. Brain scans.”

“Yeah. But they didn't find anything.” She tried to smile, but it was weak and didn't hold. “This is where you make that joke about there being nothing but air between my ears.”

Eric didn't feel the slightest bit like joking. He licked his lips and asked cautiously, “How long have you been hearing…?”

“As long as I can remember. You want the whole sorry story, don't you?”

“If you're comfortable sharing it,” he said, wishing that whisky was to hand. He didn't like where this was going.

She worried at her lip for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I reckon I owe you that much. Just… I'd be grateful if you kept this to yourself. And don't interrupt, okay? Let me get it all out.” She waited for his nod, took a couple of deep breaths and began. “I was four the first time it happened. Gran was babysitting me. When Mama picked me up, I told her all about the little girl I'd been playing with. Annabel, I called her. But there was no little girl. Gran's house was all on its lonesome out in the woods, no other kid for miles.”

“Lots of kids invent imaginary friends,” he said. He couldn't stop himself interrupting, providing the voice of reason.

“They do,” she agreed. “But I kept talking about folk no-one else could see, talking _to_ them  sometimes too. Annabel was the only one I ever saw, far as I know. The rest were just voices, but it got so bad by the time I turned five that Mama thought I was touched in the head. She took me to see doctor after doctor. None of them could find anything wrong, find a reason for it, not until Gran went to lay flowers on Grandpa Mitchell's grave and took a walk around the cemetery. Her house was spitting distance from it, you see, and there was an Annabel there alright. Annabel Bellefleur. Born 1871, died 1878.”

“You must have heard the name somewhere.”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but Gran had me draw little Annabel not long after I started talking about her. I still have the picture. The dress, the bonnet she's wearing, it all fits that era.”

“Kids are impressionable, Sookie. Your grandmother probably prompted you without realising it. It's easily done.” He wanted to strangle the woman, dead though she was. Sookie was four when she had her head filled with this crap, for Christ's sake! It was a miracle she could tell fact from fiction at all. But he knew better than to criticise the grandmother she clearly still cherished, so all he said was, “You were just trying to please her.”

“Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. I don't remember clearly enough to say. But once I started kindergarten, I found out it sure didn't please anyone else and I'd better keep it to myself if I wanted any friends at all. Didn't stop me hearing the voices, I just stopped telling anyone about them.” Picking at the cover on the bed, she continued quietly, “You know the worst thing? Gran believed in all that because of me. She thought if I could hear Annabel, that bitch Abelard could contact the dead too. If I'd only learnt to keep my mouth shut sooner, Gran might still be here.”

“Her death wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you for saying that, but forgive me if I don't quite believe it.”

Further words of comfort deserted him. Pensive, he stared at the bricked-up fireplace, the mirror. The silence was edging into awkwardness when she broke it.

“You're taking this better than I thought you would, Mr. Rational.”

He snorted. “I'm not, believe me. I can't get my head around what we just experienced.”

“Me neither. It's usually just a voice. Never had hardware falling off walls before.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I could've done without that, to tell you the truth. It's been one helluva night.”

“It has.” It made him feel better that she was as unsettled as he was. Still thoughtful he asked, “Tray knows, doesn't he? About the … voices.”

“Yeah. But Amelia doesn't, and I'd like to keep it that way if you don't mind.”

“ Why?  You two  seem pretty close. ”

“We are, it's just… Well, you've heard what she's like about all that New Age horseshit. Amelia's a little flaky, bless her heart. She'd be just thrilled to find out I have 'The Gift'" — she gave it air quotes and an eye roll — “and I just couldn't bear her excitement. Whatever the hell this is, it's brought me nothing but trouble. It's a curse, not a damn gift.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Interrupted a great kiss too. I'm real annoyed about that.”

“So am I.” He found himself smiling at her. At least the kiss had been real.

Voices from the Great Beyond, on the other hand… And yet, against all reason, against all logic, his instincts told him she was telling the truth. Her body language, her gestures, her voice, they weren't those of a liar. He'd stake his life on that.

And it all fitted. If she believed she could hear the dead, it explained her wariness, her sensitivity about being labelled crazy, th os e Oscar-winning acting skills she could call on in front of the camera.  Hell, even her career exposing all the fakers out there made some sort of screwed-up sense.

Except for one tiny thing. The voices only she could hear, the voices that just couldn't possibly be real.

Shit, this was fucked up.  No wonder she was reluctant to  tell people . If he was in her shoes, he wouldn't tell a soul.  Hell , he'd probably  crawl into the bottom of a bottle, try to drown the voices out, forget it all .

Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought and asked the question he'd been avoiding. “So … what exactly did you hear tonight?”

“You sure you wanna know?”

“No, but I'm asking anyway. Please?”

“Well, as you asked so nicely…” She closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. “It started before the mirror began to fog. Real quiet at first, just a whisper. _Cold, so cold,_ over and over. A child's voice. Shaky, like … like someone shivering.” She opened her eyes. “Then it hollered, _T_ _hee can hear me!_ And that's when it pitched a hissy fit, shaking the mirror, slapping the wall, throwing its weight around.”

“Thee? You're sure it said thee?”

“Uh-huh. It had an accent too, now I think on it. Sounded a little like that old guy, Jack.”

“A local accent,” he said slowly. Swallowing, he looked at the mirror. Was he really considering the unthinkable? “That handprint… It's too small for an adult.”

“You believe me?”

“I … believe that you believe. Beyond that…” He shrugged, not willing to commit to more. Honestly, he didn't know what to think. Plus he was exhausted. It was almost three in the morning and the long day had finally caught up with him. “I should go. Will you be able to sleep in here? We could swap rooms if you want.”

“Thanks, but I'll be fine. Whatever it was has gone and I doubt it meant us any real harm. I think it just wanted to be heard.”

It seemed wrong to leave her alone after a scare like that, but he needed to process and she insisted she'd be perfectly okay. Still, guilt washed over him when he got up to leave. To ease it he hugged her goodnight, planting a kiss on her forehead for good measure.

Sleep didn't come easily. He woke more than once to a dark room, his mind churning, running over and over what had happened, trying to spot some clue, some gap in events that could make sense of all the craziness.

…

Someone was rapping quietly on his door. Eric, face down on the bed, hands hanging over either side of the narrow mattress, groaned and burrowed his head further under the pillow.

_Tap, tap, tap._

It was no good. He could still hear it. Bloody Pam and her precious fucking schedule. He staggered to his feet and lurched across the room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Which was why he didn't see the bloody table.

“Skit!” Swearing under his breath, he rubbed at his toes. Fuck, that hurt. Karma biting him back for laughing at Stan last night, he supposed.

_Tap, tap, tap._

“Alright, alright!” He limped to the door and yanked it opened. “I'm up, you heartless bitch!”

It was Sookie, wrapped in that pink dressing gown again.

“Oh. Sorry. Thought you were Pam.” Who would've hammered on the door. Or just waltzed in and tipped him on the floor on his arse. She'd done that before. She really was a heartless bitch. He finally rubbed the last of the sleep out of his eyes and noticed that Sookie was imitating a goldfish: mouth flapping, eyes wide and fixed on his bare chest.

Oh, yeah. Clothes, a distinct lack of.

“Give me a …” Where did he throw that t-shirt last night? Ah, there, draped over the lamp. He pulled it on and bent to pick his lounge pants off the floor.

A mumbled “ _Hot damn_ ” came from behind him.

Oh-oh. He'd just flashed his bare arse at her, hadn't he? And she liked it. Grinning like an idiot, he kept his back to her as he stepped into the pants and tied the drawstring. Dropping the grin, he turned around.

Sookie was pink-cheeked and flustered. “I'm real sorry to wake you,” she said, fiddling with the tie of her dressing gown, her eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. “Would y'all mind coming down to the kitchen with me? I've been awake for hours and I'm just dying for some coffee, but no-one else is up. I guess I'm just too chicken-shit to go down there on my own. Without a witness. In case something else freaky happens.”

Everything from the night before came crashing back into his awareness, chasing the grin he was fighting far, far away.

“Of course,” he said curtly. She murmured a thank you as he stepped into the corridor and noticed how pale she was. She had bags under her eyes too. She looked as exhausted as he felt. “I could do with some coffee anyway,” he said, more kindly. “Did anything else happen last night? Did you get any sleep?”

“Some. 'Bout as much as you did, by the looks of it. No, nothing else happened.”

Halfway down the hallway Eric stopped, struck by a sudden thought. “That mess in the kitchen yesterday morning. It spooked you, didn't it? Did you, ah, hear…?”

“Oh. No, no. I just got the heebie-jeebies. Like someone walked over my grave, you know?”

He grunted  noncommittally.

“That does happen sometimes, right before I hear…” She began to babble again as she followed him down the stairs. “Not that it has to mean anything, of course. It could just be coincidence. Everybody gets the chills from time to time, don't they? It doesn't mean diddly-squat. It's just adrenaline, right?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “Mediated by the sympathetic nervous system, like the piloerection reflex.”

“The what now?”

“Goosebumps.”

“Right. Goosebumps.” Under her breath, she added, “Could you sound any more like a dumb blonde, Sookie.”

She obviously hadn't meant for him to hear that, but he had and he contradicted her sharply: “You're not dumb.”

“You sure thought I was last night,” she snapped back, twice as sharp.

Ah, shit. He'd called her stupid, hadn't he?

He swung round, intent on explaining himself, but his train of thought slammed into the buffers with a squeal and it was his turn to imitate a goldfish. Sookie was a step above him, and so close he'd almost planted his face somewhere warm and very … inviting. Okay, chests _wer_ _e_ distracting, and hers wasn't even bare.

Shit, she was glaring. What the hell was he supposed to be saying? Oh, yes.

“I, ah, didn't mean it when I said that,” he said quickly. “I was just pissed off because I thought you'd lured me into your room for a prank, not for…” He waved a hand.

“Oh. You thought…? Oh no, I really did want to—” She caught his widening smirk and groaned. “Oh, dear Lord. You're going to be insufferable now, aren't you.”

“You _really_ _wanted to_ , huh? Good to know.” His gaze dropped to her chest again. Idiot. You should've stayed last night.

“Yeah. You should have.”

Shit, did he say that out loud? Jesus, he must be half asleep. His throat felt hot, the heat spreading to his cheeks, then his ears. What the fuck? Oh Christ, no. He was blushing. And Eric Northman did not blush.

“Coffee. Let's get that coffee,” he blurted, tripping over himself to get down the stairs before she noticed.

 


	7. Chapter 7

The kitchen was occupied.

Eric stopped, surprised to see anyone else up, and Sookie smacked right into him. He thought he felt a hand on his arse before she jumped back, squeaking an apology. He might have turned round to see if she'd gone red, but his attention was on the person in front of him.

“Pam,” he said, “you're out of your coffin early.”

Pam looked up from the field microscope she was peering down. A rack of test-tubes containing various coloured liquids sat by her left elbow, an open laptop to her right. She was using the kitchen table as an impromptu lab, the steel case that contained her test kit open on the end of it. 

“Eric,” she shot back, “you look like death warmed over.” Then, when Sookie stepped out from behind him, she added, “And there's the reason. Couldn't sleep alone, eh, blondie?”

Eric was about to tell her where to stick it, but Sookie beat him to it.

“I did, actually,” she snapped, “not that it's any of your damn business.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Ugh, what _is_ that smell?”

“That would be the latest prank,” Pam said drily, nodding at the fireplace. “I took pictures, but I left it as I found it.”

Eric rounded the table in quick strides and cursed at what he saw. Water was puddled by the hearth again, but that wasn't all. Two crows lay unmoving on the iron grate, limp and bedraggled, their black wings spread awkwardly, trailing loose feathers. Something creamy-white was splattered on the back of the fireplace, drips of it congealed and crusting on the stone. When he bent to get a closer look, a smell not unlike vomit hit him.

Buttermilk. Soured buttermilk and lumps of soggy bread. Pale green shards of crockery were scattered along the back of the hearth too, under the dead birds, under the grate. The saucer. He'd forgotten about it in last night's craziness. Someone had hurled it against the wall.

“Can you tell what killed them?” Pam asked him.

“I'm not a bloody vet.” But he crouched down and examined one of the crows, his fingers probing gently through cold, wet, slightly oily feathers. No blood, no obvious injuries, but when he lifted it, its head lolled dramatically to the side. An eye stared at him, filmy and dull.

“Broken neck, I think,” he said gruffly.

Its skull gave under his fingertips too. He put it down and checked the other one. Same thing. Broken neck, crushed skull, smashed wing. He sat back on his haunches, frowning at the fireplace. If they had somehow tumbled down the chimney… No, this was higher-impact, as if they'd flown into something at speed. Hit by a car, maybe?

Or held by the feet and swung forcefully against a stone wall. His stomach lurched at the image, but he was suddenly sure that was exactly how it happened. Sookie was at his shoulder, her face grim.

“So much for it not meaning any harm,” she said darkly. She went to the sink, to the window sill.

He got up and followed. She was shifting things to get at the other saucer. Her hand went to her mouth and she turned to him, her eyes wide and scared. The saucer was exactly where she left it, unbroken, but something had pressed down on the sticky bread and left an impression. Eric picked the saucer up carefully by the rim and put it on the table.

Pam frowned at it. “What the hell am I looking at?”

“A handprint,” he said. It wasn't as clear as the one on the mirror, the fingers running together, but the shape was unmistakeable. A small hand, a child's hand. “Sookie left this out last night.”

“I did,” Sookie confirmed, shooting him a curious look. Then she caught Pam's scornful expression, grimaced and came clean. “Bread soaked in milk. For, um, a brownie. I thought—”

“A brownie. Really.” Pam's tone was scathing.

“It doesn't matter why she did it,” Eric said sharply. “How did that handprint get there?”

Pam raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Someone leant on it, I expect.”

Impatient, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand down onto the table, beside the saucer. “Look at it, Pam. It's too small to be one of ours.”

“So someone took a hand from a mannequin or a doll and did it with that! Jesus, Eric, has so much of your blood migrated south that you can't think at all logically?”

Eric glowered at her, but didn't dignify that with a reply. Instead, he turned to Sookie and indicated the bread. “Did you do that?”

She looked him right in the eye. “No, I did not.”

“I believe you.”

Pam snorted. “Well, I bloody don't.”

Eric was furious. “Does it look like she's lying?”

“It's okay,” Sookie said, putting a hand on his arm. “I'm not offended. She doesn't have any reason to trust me, none of you do. We only met two days ago. Y'all don't really know me from a hole in the ground.”

“I was just being honest,” Pam said, shrugging.

“Fine,” Eric muttered. “Did anyone else know that saucer was there?”

Sookie shook her head. “Tray knew I was trying something, but not what it was. How did you know?”

“I saw you put it there. I was outside, having a fag.” He looked at Pam. “And I didn't do this either.”

“And you never lie,” she said sarcastically.

He gave her a flat look. “Would I kill those crows?”

“No. No, you wouldn't do that.” She sighed. “Look, let's get the mess cleared up. It stinks in here and we wouldn't want to put Stan off his breakfast. You know how grouchy he gets when he's hungry.”

Eric volunteered to get rid of the dead birds, mainly so he could get out of there and clear his head. He picked them up by the feet, stamped his boots on, pulled on his coat, and went outside in a black mood. It was raining again, the grass slick and the shrubs dripping water. The crows' feet pricked at his hands, stiff and hard, like a bunch of dry twigs, and as he walked across the lawn, their wings flapped feebly against his leg in a cruel parody of life that sickened his stomach and further darkened his mood. He found a dense rhododendron bush — there were plenty growing wild in the woods that faced the kitchen — and threw the crows under it, where the foxes would find them.

Waste not, want not. That was nature's way.

His cigarettes were in his coat. He stayed under the trees, rain dripping from the drooping conifers onto a brown carpet of old needles as he smoked. Was it all just a prank? Was Pam right, had he let his interest in a pretty blonde cloud his judgement? Sookie seemed genuinely shocked, even frightened by that handprint, but he'd seen what a good actress she was and he probably shouldn't trust that.

Damn, it was cold. He was hungry, and ready to murder that coffee now. Flipping up his hood, he jogged back to the kitchen. Yards from the door, he heard raised voices. Shit. They were arguing, and he was in no mood to break up a cat fight. He slowed down, hoping it would blow itself out before he got inside.

“…never expected you to, Pam. But you don't have to be such a bitch about it.”

“Look, blondie, I don't give a fuck what you believe in. Santa Claus, leprechauns, sparkly fairies, what-fucking-ever. But if you're messing with Eric's head, there'll be hell to pay. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Eric clattered through the door just as Sookie slammed a bottle of cleaning spray down on the table. She pulled off the rubber gloves she had on, dropped them on the table too, and took a deep breath. “I'm gonna go get dressed.”

“What about that coffee?” he said. “I was going to make breakfast.”

She shook her head. “Sorry. Lost my appetite.”

As soon as she was gone, he rounded on Pam. “There was no need to have a go at her.”

“It needed saying.”

“I can look after myself, you know. You're not my bloody mother.” Jesus, he could strangle her sometimes. He stomped to the sink to wash his hands.

“Did you really go back to your room last night?”

“Yes.” He looked over his shoulder. “Jealous, are we?”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. You know me better than that. I just have an exceptionally low tolerance for bullshit, especially bullshit that interferes with the shoot. We only have today and tomorrow morning left.”

“Stop bitching, Pam. We're ahead of schedule, aren't we?”

“Yes. We are.” She paused and gave him a piercing look. “You seemed genuinely rattled last night, so I'll give you the benefit for now. But this better not be some elaborate prank, Eric. I'll have your guts for garters if it is.”

“It's not me, I swear. And if it's Stan, I'll hold him down while you disembowel him.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep. If it's Stan, I'll be castrating him with a blunt spoon and I doubt you want to witness that. Now…” She waved at the microscope. “You're up, petal. I need a biologist to cast an eye over those samples, tell me what I'm looking at.”

“Make me something to eat, then. I'm bloody starving.”

… 

The water samples weren't what Eric expected. They were full of fragmented plant matter and teaming with algae. He recognised the long spiral chains of spirogyra, but he was rusty on fresh water algae. He had to borrow Pam's laptop to look the rest up. The ones he could identify tallied with Pam's pH tests: acid, stagnant water.

That made no sense. Yes, the samples Pam had collected that morning, in the kitchen, might have come from outside or the crows could have contaminated it. But the samples from Sookie's room, the water that seemed to pour through the wall behind the mirror, those should be either tap water from a broken pipe or rain water that had somehow soaked through from the chimney.

Not pond water, which was what they looked like under the microscope.

Although there had been that rank, foul smell in Sookie's room. A boggy, rotting smell. The smell of things trapped in still water, without air, without oxygen, slowly decaying. That's what his fingers had smelt of yesterday too, when he touched the damp hearth.

All the evidence so far pointed to a single source, some stagnant body of water. He was explaining this conclusion to Pam when Stan came in, so he started over and brought Stan up to speed as they ate their way through several rounds of toast slathered in jam. (Toast was about the extent of Pam's breakfast-making skills, but at least she didn't burn it black like she used to.) Stan looked over the pictures Pam had taken of the dead birds and whistled.

“Bloody hell, that's a bit extreme.”

“It is,” Eric agreed. “I can't see Sookie or even Tray going that far for a prank, and as for the water samples... None of it makes sense.”

He was sick of saying that.

Stan looked at him. “I know that look. You're determined to solve this, aren't you? Well, big man, lucky for you _I_ didn't spend all night enjoying the charms of a pretty blonde.”

“Neither did he,” Pam said.

“He didn't seal the deal? Shit, Eric, you must be more out of practise than I am.” Stan drained the last of his tea, put his mug down and headed for the door. He stopped when he realised they weren't following. “Come on, you idiots. Don't you want to see Uncle Stanislaus solve the mystery? You can tell me what a genius I am later.”

…

“Fuck,” Stan muttered when his laptop screen stayed obstinately blank for the fourth time. “I was sure that one would catch someone sneaking out of a bedroom.”

Stan, acting on the paranoid instincts of a man who played so many pranks that there was always somebody trying to get him back, had planted some cameras around the house after everyone else had gone to bed. Motion-activated, wifi-enabled cameras. So far, none of them had picked up so much as a mouse stirring. Not the one covering the upstairs hallway, not the one covering the stairs, not the one covering the corridor to the kitchen.

Not even the one outside that covered the back door. That one coming up blank shot down Eric's latest theory. He thought perhaps some local teenagers had been breaking in at night to have some fun at their expense, pretending to be that ghostly kid or something. That would explain the messes in the entrance hall and the kitchen at least, if not what he saw in Sookie's room.

Frankly, he was relieved to be wrong; he didn't want to meet the kind of teenager who killed crows for fun. But the lack of answers was still frustrating.

“ Looks like you owe Sookie an apology,” he said to Pam.

“Not yet,” she said, folding her arms. “He said five cameras. There's one more.”

“Let's have a look.” Stan pulled up the last feed and the kitchen appeared on screen, viewed from up near the ceiling, looking down across the table, towards the fireplace. The angles were distorted and the room was full of long tangled shadows, pale moonlight streaming in from the window.

Stan grunted in disgust. “The lighting levels suck. But I left this one running all night, so it should've caught our crow-killer in the act. Let me fast forward.”

Nothing. Nothing. More nothing.

A sudden blip of white noise flashed past, the dim image blurring into static. It snapped back almost immediately, but it was altered subtly. Before Eric could work out how, Stan hit stop, rewound and played it real-time.

A crackle, a hiss, and snow filled the screen. The time stamp said four-twenty-seven, the wee small hours. Thirty seconds or so passed before the microphone picked up a splintering crash, then a commotion of scrabbling and flapping, a hoarse caw cut off by a heavy thud.

The snow cleared. It had lasted barely two minutes, and it was just possible to make out something glistening as it dripped down the back of the fireplace. There were two dark shapes on the hearth.

No-one said anything for a long moment.

Stan cleared his throat. “They must have disabled the camera. My money's on Tray; he knows his electronics.”

Neither Eric nor Pam pointed out the holes in that theory. Like, for instance, that none of the other cameras had caught Tray as he moved around the house. He wasn't exactly a small man.

Pam picked at a fingernail, not meeting anyone's eyes, which was most unlike her. “Things are already tense. We can't just accuse him, not without proof.”

“No, definitely not,” Eric agreed, happy to latch onto that idea. He liked Tray and he didn't want to piss him off. Anyway, his gut said this wasn't the Americans. It had to be someone else, someone local. “Who else has keys to the house, do you think?”

Pam shrugged. “The letting agents. Whoever cleans the place between rentals. But it wouldn't be difficult to break in. None of the windows are alarmed for a start.”

Stan was staring thoughtfully at the frozen screen. “I say find the how, and we'll find the who. We only have night shots left to do, don't we?” He looked appealingly at Pam.

“Yes.” She sighed. “Okay, okay, you can investigate. But only until lunch. Eric has to rest this afternoon.”

“I'm fine,” Eric protested. “I got four hours sleep.”

“And it shows. You look like shit. You're taking a sodding nap if I have to roofie you myself.”

…

They tackled Sookie's room first. Eric knocked on her door. She answered in jeans and a red knitted top that clung in very flattering ways. She gave him a small smile, but she was subdued and she kept her thoughts to herself while he and Stan went over the room again. They found nothing more than they had the night before. Short of ripping the plaster off the wall, which would definitely lose them their deposit and almost certainly result in physical reprisals from Pam, the next best thing was to get into the roof space.

There was an access hatch in the ceiling at the end of hallway. Eric found a pole, pushed it open and squinted up into the darkness. “No ladder. I bet there's no light either. Plenty of cobwebs, though.”

“I'm smaller. I'll go.” Stan scowled at the narrow hatch and fiddled with headlamp strapped to his forehead, making sure it worked.

Eric grinned at him. “Afraid a big hairy spider will fall in your hair?”

“Fuck off. And if I get bitten by a bat up there, I'm going to kick your arse from here to kingdom come.”

Sookie spoke up for the first time. “Y'all have really vicious bats or something?”

“Not especially,” Stan said. “But they carry rabies. They're about the only animal here that does, and they don't much like being woken up in the day.”

Eric gave Stan a boost and he grabbed the edge of the hatch. Once he'd pulled himself through it, Eric dragged over a table and hopped up onto it. He'd brought up a torch from the kitchen, a big bulky yellow one, square with a sturdy handle. He stuck his head through the hatch and switched it on. The beam bounced of cobwebs and sent shadows racing above the dusty rafters. Stan was on his hands and knees, carefully keeping his weight on the joists as he crawled across the space.

“It's bloody freezing up here,” he called, wriggling under a rafter.

“Keep going,” Eric called back. He ducked out of the hatch briefly to estimate the direction. “A little to your right. You should be nearly there.”

“I see the chimney,” Stan called a second later, his voice muffled. “No sign of a leak, though. Let me have a nosy.”

After a minute or two, Eric got impatient. “Anything?”

“No, bricks are as dry as a bone. No bats, thank fuck, but there's plenty of woodworm. I'm coming back. Point that torch up so I can aim for it, would you?”

Eric dutifully pointed it skywards, just as a voice below him asked: “What's all the noise out here?”

Tray had come out into the landing, grumbling about being woken up after their unexpected late night. Eric listened as Sookie related the latest act in their little mystery play, her voice low and rushed. Her tone sharpened, he caught Pam's name twice, and Tray's rumbled reply sound distinctly annoyed.

Shit. The Americans might be more than annoyed once they found out that Stan had stuck cameras all over the house without telling them. Pam should be the one to break it to them, he decided.

Tray might be an ex-con, but he didn't seem the type to hit a woman.

…

The cameras didn't come up straight away. On their way downstairs, Stan remembered he'd left his phone in the study when they were partying in there. He went to fetch it and his yell brought everyone running.

There was ash on the rug in front of the fireplace. A big patch of it, as if a large shaggy dog had rolled in the grate and then laid out on the rug to sleep. Ash was smeared on the stone around the fire too, low down, at child's height. And damp ashy marks led from the fire to the door. Marks that could only be footprints. Bipedal, human footprints.

Wet, ashy, slightly _green_ footprints. Eric took out a penknife, scraped some of the green stuff off the carpet and examined it.

“Looks like pond weed,” he said grimly.

“Fireplaces,” Sookie said slowly. “Here, the kitchen, my room. It's always a fireplace.”

She gave Eric a significant look that he pretended not to understand, but he knew exactly what she was getting at: Fireplaces were where you went when you were cold.

The Americans ate a late breakfast while Pam told them about the dead crows, the tests they'd done on the water samples, and finally the cameras. Tray didn't seem _that_ upset, but he and Sookie shared a dark look when Stan admitted the cameras hadn't solved the mystery and had, in fact, raised more questions.

A heated discussion followed. Amelia argued that it was a real haunting, unashamed and completely undeterred by Pam's scorn. Tray and Sookie were more diplomatic, saying only that there was something 'mighty strange' going on, something neither of them could explain. The Brits argued that there had to be a mundane explanation, and Pam in particular was adamant that it had to be a prank.

That led to the question of who the prankster was. Accusations and counter-accusations flew every which way, until Pam rapped her empty mug loudly on the table. “What we need to settle this,” she said into the sudden silence, “is proof. And chemistry never lies, so we should start by looking for the bloody pond that water came from.”

The old maps hanging up in the study were county maps, but there was an estate map. Dated 1967, in pen and ink, neat hand-drawn lines,. There wasn't a pond marked on it and the grounds were too large to search all of in the time they had before lunch, but Eric had a pretty good idea where to start.

The water samples were acid. Rhododendrons like acid soil, albeit well-drained. The woods that faced the kitchen were quite extensive, and as unkempt and overgrown as the rest of the grounds. There could easily be a pond hidden back there.

They tramped through the trees, stretched out in a long line. The conifers kept the rain off but the light out. It was gloomy, and a damp chill hung in the air, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones, an unpleasant reminder that winter was around the corner. Further in, the conifers gave way to beeches and the undergrowth became mostly bracken. Bracken and mounds of brambles. They hacked at them with sticks, but progress was slow and exhausting, and they covered less ground than Eric expected, even with six pairs of eyes.

Amelia and Pam soon lost all enthusiasm and began to complain. Amelia because she didn't think they would find anything; Pam because she didn't want to ruin her bloody manicure. They volunteered to go make lunch, and Sookie, who wasn't enjoying the cold one bit, went back to the house with them.

The men carried on. The ground did seem to be getting wetter towards the middle of the woods, but when Pam called them back to the house at two o'clock they'd found no pond, stagnant or otherwise.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The ladies had made a big pan of hearty chicken soup and warmed some crusty rolls to go with it, perfect to thaw the men out after all that tramping around in the cold. His belly full, Eric yawned. Just the once, but it was enough to set Pam off and she badgered him mercilessly until he agreed to go get some sleep. She even ushered him out of the kitchen in an attempt to make sure he did.

But Pam wasn't the boss of him, she just thought she was.

Eric didn't go to his room. He went to the dining room instead, to watch that video of the crows appearing in the hearth again. He still couldn't work out how the camera had been interfered with, or how it had all been done so quickly. It had to be more than one person, surely. He ran it a second time, listening to the noises in the background while the screen was filled with static, hoping to catch voices or whispered instructions. Something, anything that would solve at least this part of the mystery.

That crash was definitely the saucer smashing. The commotion after it — the scrabbling, the cawing, that sickening thud — made his hands clench. Bastards had swung the crows against the wall while they were still alive.

During the next play-through, he imagine that so clearly he could see the crows smashing into the wall, hear their delicate bones snapping. Gritting his teeth, he listened to it again. Over and over, until he started to imagine he could wet footfalls in the static.

At that point, he gave it up as a bad job. If he was hallucinating ghostly footsteps, he really did need a nap. He was halway up the stairs, on his way to his room, when Sookie came up behind him.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” she muttered, “that woman is so goddamn high-handed.”

“Pam nagged you in to getting some shut-eye too?”

She snorted and said, in a passable imitation of Pam's cut-glass accent: “Blondie, you could fit a suitcase of clothes in those bags under your eyes. Go get some bloody sleep.”

He grinned. “Very good. You sound just like her. Now all you need is a stare that can curdle milk.”

“I'll work on that. You got your marching orders a while ago, how come you're still wandering around?”

“I, ah, had another look at that video from the kitchen.”

Her face fell. “Oh. All this is really bothering you, isn't it?”

“I don't like mysteries I can't explain.” He looked sideways at her. “Unless they're beautiful women, that is.”

She didn't say anything to that, but it got a small smile out of her. Sadly by the time they reached the landing, she was lost in her thoughts again. He stopped, searching for something to say that would bring that smile back, maybe keep her with him a little longer.

“Well, this is me,” she said. “I should—”

“Come to my room.” Her eyebrows shot up and he added quickly, “No, not— I didn't mean that the way it came out. We could nap together?”

“Oh… It's real sweet of you to offer and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted, but I reckon I stand more chance of getting to sleep alone.”

Alone. He looked over her shoulder, down the hallway to her door. Alone, in that bedroom. That seemed like a spectacularly bad idea to him.

“Those crows…” he began. “What if the sick fuck that killed them comes back? This place isn't exactly Fort Knox. Anyone could break in. Could even be someone with a key.”

She shrugged, not looking half as worried as he thought she should be. “The others are just downstairs, and there's a lock on my door.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “You don't believe this is something a lock can stop.”

“I… No. No, I don't. Do you?”

“I don't believe in ghosts, Sookie. I never have.” He ran a hand through his hair. How could he convince her to take the danger seriously? “But haven't you seen any horror films?” he tried. “The crazy psycho always goes after the pretty blonde as soon as she goes off on her own.”

She laughed. “I hate to break it to you, honey, but those movies ain't real.”

“Those crows were. Very real. I really would feel better if you weren't alone.” Then he thought of the perfect thing to say. “And there's no fireplace in my room.”

She was wavering, he could tell, but she wasn't quite ready to cave. “It's daylight,” she said, rather stubbornly he thought. “It only comes at night.”

“So far. This all so bloody weird, who knows what's going to happen next.” He gave her his best pleading look. “Please? Just humour me?”

“That pout is ridiculous,” she muttered, shaking her head at him but smiling a little too. “Okay, okay. But no hanky-panky. We're just napping.”

He kept his face straight. “Of course.”

“And I'll hold you to that,” she warned. Then she grinned and batted her eyes in a ridiculously exaggerated way. “Just let me go slip into something comfortable and I'll be right with you.”

Five minutes later, there was a soft knock on his bedroom door. Eric was sprawled on the bed, ready and waiting. He was barefoot but still in his jeans and t-shirt (she said no hanky-panky); there were no dirty clothes on the floor (he'd shoved them into an empty drawer to increase the odds in his favour); and his breath was minty-fresh (he'd given his teeth a once over in case she changed her mind). He called for her to come in and , once she was inside, he motioned for her to lock the door behind her.

And she did, no hesitation.

She trusted him. He liked that, liked it a little too much. What he didn't like was what she'd changed into: thick jogging pants, a long-sleeved cotton jersey and white sports socks. There wasn't an inch of skin showing, except for her hands and face. Her hair was down though. He liked it loose. It gave him ideas.

He pulled a disappointed face. “When you said comfortable, I was hoping for stockings and a thong.”

“Oh honey, thongs ain't comfortable. Any girl who told you so was lyin' through her teeth.” She came over and perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes warm and teasing. “Probably faking it, too.”

“No girl has to fake it with me.”

“Pfft. So you say.” She tugged a pillow out from under him and made a fuss of plumping it.

“So I know.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Any time you want to test that out just— Ungf!”

She'd smacked him in the face with the pillow! Hard, too. She snatched it back before he could grab it and raised it again, threateningly.

“No nasty talk, buddy. Unless you want another smack upside the head.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, laughing, his hands raised in surrender. “I'll behave. Come on, lie down.”

“You better,” she warned. She put the pillow down and stretched out warily. On top of the covers, with a good six inches of space between them. Not easy on a bed this narrow; she must be right on the edge.

He patted the space. “You can move over. I won't bite, I promise.”

“Damn right, you won't,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You're staying on your side, buster. I'll build a pillow wall if I have to.”

He gave her puppy-dog eyes, but she was having none of it. He shook his head and sighed. “You're a hard-hearted woman, Sookie Stackhouse.”

He liked that about her. And he liked seeing that twinkle back in her eyes. They stared at each other. Stared a little too long, and a little too intensely. She cleared her throat.

“Do you usually nap in jeans? That really can't be comfortable. Y'all can change, I don't mind.”

She really shouldn't have said that.

“Good idea,” he said innocently, and got off the bed. His back to her, he unbuckled his belt and dropped his jeans right there. Sookie made a strangled noise and when he turned around she had a hand clamped over her eyes. She was lucky he was wearing boxers, he didn't always bother. Chuckling, he pulled the covers free on his side and slipped under them. Only then did she uncover her eyes.

“Why so shy?” he teased. “You saw me stark bollock naked this morning.”

“I did not! I'm a lady, I'll have you know. My eyes stayed strictly above the waist.” He raised a doubting eyebrow and she bit her lip to stop a giggle. “Okay, you got me. Butt naked, I'd have given you.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding his head sagely. “What a pity. You missed my best side.”

“Oh, I don't know about that.” She glanced down at his crotch. “Seen one, seen 'em all I reckon.”

He gave her a mock-offended glare and she did begin to giggle. Very cutely too, her cheeks flushing. Taking a chance, he leaned across the space and stole a kiss. It was closed-mouthed, warm and lovely. But far too short, because she stopped before it could go anywhere.

“We really should nap,” she whispered, her forehead resting on his. “I'm pooped and something tells me we shouldn't rile Pam up any more than we already have. I don't wanna see her on the warpath. She's one scary bitch.”

He sighed, for real this time. “I'd tell you her bark is worse than her bite, but it really isn't. Fine. Nap time it is.” He rolled onto his half of the bed and stretched out on his back, hooking the arm closest to her behind his head, his other hand resting on the covers over his stomach.

“Comfy there?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, closing his eyes. “Best position to nap in.”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” The bed shifted and a soft female body snuggled in tight against his side, her head settling on his chest and a leg curled over his hips.

“Mm, that _is_ better,” he murmured. God, she was warm, even through the irritating covers that separated them. His eyes still shut, he took the arm from under his head and slipped it carefully around her shoulders. He didn't realise she was upset until she spoke.

“I messed up,” she said softly into his chest. “I thought putting that bread and milk out would calm it down, but I just made things worse. The ash, the crows… It's like it's stepped up a notch now it knows I can hear it. Like it wants my attention. I reckon it's gonna keep coming back.”

“Shush. It's not your fault.” He squeezed her shoulders, kissed her hair. “I've got you, Sookie. Go to sleep.”

It took a while, but eventually her breathing evened out. Wrapped in her warmth and the clean smell of her hair, Eric stared at the ceiling, his thoughts circling, his mind full of crows and handprints and the impossible. And the perplexing woman snuggled against him. He didn't think he'd fall asleep, but he did.

It was the bed shifting that disturbed him. He rolled over, blinking, his eyes gummy. Sookie was getting up.

“Hey,” she whispered, her hair tumbling around her face, “I'm gonna sneak back to my room. See you downstairs.”

He grunted, not really awake. By the time what she'd said registered properly and he sat up to stop her leaving, she was already gone.

…

Pam and Amelia were cackling when he walked into the kitchen. At Tray, judging by the half-amused scowl on his face. The atmosphere was lighter than it had been earlier and the place smelt like a chippy. Stan was unloading paper-wrapped parcels from a plastic bag onto the counter.

“Hey  there, big man,”  he said when he saw  Eric . “ Our guests wanted  to eat English tonight.  I got you a haddock and chips.”

“Tak,” Eric said, without thinking. “Do we have lager?” He went to the fridge to investigate. They did. He pulled out a six pack, threw a can to Tray and one to Stan. And then one to Pam when she gave him a look. Amelia shook her head. Eric popped his can open and took a long drink.

“Not too many,” Pam warned. “We don't want you slurring on camera.”

Tray laughed. “Jesus, woman. Do you ever stop riding the poor guy's ass?”

“Riding his ass? You people have a really odd turn of phrase.” Pam nudged Amelia. “Are you sure he knows what he's doing in the bedroom?”

“Oh yeah,” Amelia said, giggling. “Tray's a quick study.”

“Quick study?” Tray narrowed his eyes at her. “I've forgotten more tricks than you know, little girl. And just what have you been telling Pam about me while I was gone?”

“Oh, you know,” Amelia said breezily, making speedily for the door. “Just girl talk. I'm gonna go wake Sookie.”

“Taking one for the team, huh?” Tray snorted. “That won't get you off the hook, Broadway. Wanna take some coffee for that bear you're about to poke?”

“I'll take my chances. Wish me luck.”

Eric watched all this with bemusement. The two groups were getting on like a house on fire again. What the hell had he missed? Then he saw it: a tendril of smoke curling lazily up from a bowl on the window sill.

“Have you been smoking dope without me?” he asked. That was about the only thing that might make Pam this mellow. Picking the bowl up, he saw it was filled with what looked like burnt pot pourri. He sniffed at the smouldering mess and pulled a face. “What the hell is that? It smells rank.”

“Sage, rosemary and sandalwood,” Stan told him. “There's bowls of it all over the house. Amelia performed a cleansing that she swears will keep our not-so-friendly ghost from crossing the threshold.”

“And you went along with that?”

Pam snickered. “Whatever keeps the little witch happy. It's bullshit, but it's harmless bullshit.”

“Hey, watch it,” Tray growled.

“What? I saw you rolling your eyes behind her back.”

“That was affectionate. Besides, I'm allowed. I love her.”

Pam opened her mouth but nothing came out.

Tray grinned. “Cat got your tongue, darlin'?”

She recovered and said drily, “I'm surprised. Men of your generation don't normally toss the L-word about so casually.”

“Nothing casual about it. I love the shit outta that girl.” He looked at Eric and Stan. “That stiff upper lip thing true, then?”

Eric shrugged. “Don't look at us. Neither of us is English.”

“Pam is though,” Stan said, a gleam in his eyes that meant he was hatching some plan to embarrass her, but before Eric could guess what it was and help him put it into action Amelia came back, with Sookie in tow.

They all sat down to eat, that morning's argument forgotten as they chatted and joked around like they'd known each other for years. After some back and forth about terminology — fries and chips, Stan insisted, were two entirely different entities; fries being skinny, dry and completely inferior, chips being thicker and greasier, and infinitely more satisfying — there was a friendly debate over the best condiment to go with them. Pam was a salt and vinegar purist; Eric had been converted to salt n' sauce during his time in Scotland; and Stan liked to drown his in a lake of ketchup. Each tried to persuade the Americans to their cause, but it was the local style that won out with them: chips slathered in onion gravy.

After they cleared up, Tray followed Eric outside for a smoke. He had his own pack of cigarettes this time, and they had a conversation on the merits of pre-made versus rolling your own. Then Tray said, “Pam seems pretty unflappable. How come the L-word threw her like that?”

_Miriam._ _Machines beeping._ _T_ _he smell of antiseptic._ Eric went with a tiny white lie. “Love is something of an alien concept to Pam. Commitment doesn't interest her.” Not any more.

“Something tells me that ain't the whole story, but I won't pry.”

“Good. Then I won't have to tell you to fuck off.”

Tray gave him a shrewd look. “You ain't just friends who partied through college together. You're like a family, ain't cha?”

“It wasn't all parties.” But he wasn't about open up about the tough times they'd shared with someone he'd only known a few days. He smoked in silence for a while, but the curiosity rolling off the other man was hard to ignore. “You have family, Tray? Other than the kid and the ex-wife, I mean.”

“Got a sister out in California. Married some douche out there, got two boys I've only met the once. Mom was killed when I was seventeen. Some fucker ran a stop sign, game over. My old man drank himself into following her about ten years later. Got a couple cousins knocking around somewhere, but I ain't heard from them in a coon's age.”

“Let's just say you probably get more Christmas cards than the three of us put together and leave it at that.” They had no-one else to rely on, that's why the three of them were so close. Eric stubbed his cigarette butt out on the wall and put it in a bin. “We better go in. It's properly dark now. Stan will want to start.”

…

They finished filming about midnight. The phosphorescent paint trick was in the bag and the last few scenes had been crossed off Pam's dreaded list. They'd even had time to get some extra shots of the more spooky nooks and crannies around the house.

Including up in the roof space. There _was_ a family of bats up there. Stan didn't get bitten, but he almost crapped himself when one of them flew at his face. His hasty retreat involved an impressive litany of swear words, and ended when he clipped his head on a rafter and practically fell through the hatch. Everyone was too busy pissing themselves laughing to be sympathetic, even Eric who was still up in the roof.

“You can all fuck off,” Stan muttered, checking the camera over and then rubbing at the back of his head. “I could be concussed for all you know.”

“First thing you did was check your precious camera,” Pam pointed out. “I think you'll live, short round.”

Eric swung down from the hatch and landed neatly on the table. “Rafter nil, Stan's thick skull one.”

“How come those fuckers didn't fly at your head?” Stan grumbled. “It's a bigger target.”

Pam put the lid on her pen and shut the clipboard she was carrying with a decisive snap. “Well, that's a wrap. Well done, everybody. Time to celebrate, you've earned it.”

Stan said, “I have to check tonight's footage first.”

“You can do that tomorrow. There's cake downstairs. And wine.”

“Cake?” Tray eyes lit up. “What sort of cake?”

It was a very decadent chocolate and raspberry gateau, smothered in cream. The wine wasn't half bad either, but Eric was too busy flirting with Sookie to really appreciate it or the cake. Those smiles she kept flashing at him from across the room, the glow the firelight gave to her cheeks, those dimples, the sound of her laughter, the way she licked her fork…

The anticipation was killing him.

Filming was done, even Pam had relaxed, and there was absolutely nothing to stop him making a move. At last, Pam announced she was going to bed and clearing up could waiting until the morning. When a chorus of agreement came from round the room, Eric almost cheered.

On her way to the door, Pam stopped next to the chair he was sitting in, put her empty glass down on the end table, and leant over to murmur in his ear. “Go check on Stan, would you?”

Putting his glass down too, Eric looked around. “Where is he?”

“Editing, I assume. He slipped out a while ago. You know what he's like, he'll be at it all night if no-one tells him to stop. And I'm knackered, so it's your turn, petal.”

“If Stan wants to stay up all night, let him.”

Pam just looked at him. “I was up before you and I didn't have the luxury of a nap.”

Eric dropped his head back on the chair and groaned. “This joint custody lark is a pain in the arse. Fine. I'll see to short round. Wouldn't want the kid staying up past his bed-time.”

He got up, casting a regretful look in Sookie's direction. Amelia had just taken a pile of plates out of her hands and was telling her on no account was she to tidy up. He didn't quite manage to catch her eye before he left. Ah, well. If she went upstairs before he came back, he'd just go knock on her door.

Her bed was bigger than his anyway.

He found Stan in the dining room alright, but he wasn't editing. He was bent over his laptop, muttering to himself, a command window open on the screen and full of gibberish. The room smelt of hot metal. A soldering iron was cooling on a mat on the table, a pile of discarded components and off-cut bits of wire beside it.

Eric leant against the door frame and cleared his throat.

“Jesus!” Stan yelped. “Oh, it's you. Good. Give me a second.” He typed a few more lines of gibberish and hit enter. “There, that should do it. Party still going?”

“No, just winding up.” Eric nodded at the soldering iron. “Up to no good, are we?”

“Er, yeah. Strictly between you and me, though. Don't tell the others. Not even Pam.”

That got him interested. “Why not?”

“Because she was quite happy to help them with that painting trick and whoever is yanking our chain with all these pranks is clever, devious, and thoroughly evil.”

“Put that way, it does sound like Pam. I'm hurt. You don't think it could be me?”

“You've got no stomach for killing animals, Eric. Someone is messing with us, and whether it's Pam, or Tray, or some local with a sick sense of humour, I'm going to catch them in the act. No-one pulls a fast one on Stan Davidowitz.”

“And how do you plan to—”

An alarm beeped loudly and a big orange number three flashed up on the laptop. Stan reached over and hit enter, grinning as the beeping shut off. “I put together some infra-red motion sensors and linked them to this laptop.”

“Where did you put them?”

“In the kitchen, by the front door, in the study, in the entrance hall, on the stairs. All over. Anything bigger than a mouse moves, I'll know about it. I didn't put any outside the bedroom doors though, so you're still good to sneak into Sookie's room.”

Eric eyed the couch in the corner. There was a pillow and a blanket on it that hadn't been there before. “And what? You're going to stay up all night keeping watch from that tiny couch?”

“That's the idea.”

“It's a terrible idea.” He was going to hate himself for this later, but he wanted to know who was doing this as much as Stan did. Maybe more. He'd never been able to let a really challenging mystery go. “We should take turns, half the night each. That way if something happens whoever is up will be fresher.”

Stan slapped his shoulder. “Thanks, big man. I thought you'd never offer. Toss you for who goes first.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

The coin toss did not go Eric's way. He 'won' the first shift, which threw a massive spanner in his plans for the evening. If Stan went first, Eric could spend a couple of very happy hours with Sookie and then sneak out of her room before they switch over at four a.m.

Something Stan knew only too well, judging by his smug grin.

The bastard slapped Eric on the back and congratulated him on his 'luck'. When Eric suggested casually that they swap, Stan sucked his teeth, shook his head regretfully, and pointed out that _he_ had n't had the benefit of an afternoon nap, so it was only fair he got his beauty sleep first.

And, from the gleeful look in his eyes, nothing short of begging was going to get him to budge.

What could Eric do? He'd offered to help and he couldn't back out now. And he was not going to beg. He'd never hear the end of it.

He was screwed. Or very much not screwed, as looked to be the case. That bloody curiosity of his was a real pain in the neck.

Glumly resigning himself to a lonely night on a lumpy couch, Eric went upstairs to fetch his ipod and the thick cable-knit sweater he'd brought in case the weather took a turn for the worse. (The dining room was draughty and rather cool already.) There was no sign of Sookie anywhere upstairs. A brief and rather unrealistic fantasy of finding her naked and waiting in his bed crossed his mind, but of course she wasn't. She might come looking for him, though. On the off-chance she did, he lingered in his room for as long as he could. No such luck. As he left, he thought about knocking on her door, but what could he say?

_I_ _just came for_ _a goodnight kiss,_ _I can't stay and I can't tell you why._

Yeah, right. That would go down like a lead balloon. She'd slam the door in his face, and rightly so.

Feeling sorry for himself, he went downstairs. Stan took no notice of his long face. He went over how to disable and reset the alarms one more time and then, after extracting a promise from Eric to wake him at four, or sooner if something happened, he left. The alarm on the stairs went off twice, but that was just people faffing about on their way to bed. After that the house fell silent. Eric kicked off his shoes and settled on the couch, his ipod playing quietly and a blanket thrown over his legs.

He'd left a lamp on in the corner, but it wasn't enough to stop him getting drowsy. When yawn caught him unawares, he took out his phone and played a game. That worked for about an hour, but then his head began to nod.

The alarm blared out, jerking Eric awake.

Launching off the couch, he smacked at the laptop to shut it off before the racket alerted whoever was creeping about the house. Sensor number three again, the stairs. He rubbed his face and squinted at his watch. Ten past three. Rain lashed at the windows, muffled by velvet curtains that weren't as thick as they looked. The dining room was distinctly chilling now, and he could hear a muffled clanging.

The bell on the roof. Must be filthy weather out there.

He grabbed his sweater off the back of the couch and went to investigate, his socked feet quiet on the floor. As he reached the entrance hall, the moon came out from behind a cloud and under its pale light the chequered floortiles glowed silver and inky black. Except where a line of wet marks glistened, leading towards the kitchen. The footprints again, but that wasn't what made Eric stop dead in the shadows, his heart in his throat.

Sookie was crossing the hall, her hair shining in the moonlight.

Shit. Was she behind this after all? He didn't want to believe  that, b ut why else would she be …?

Wait. Something wasn't right. She was barefoot, and that fluffy dressing gown of hers was hanging open. As if she'd got up in a hurry and had forgotten to tie it. The way she was moving was off too. He watched her, puzzled, trying to work out what it was.

No sway in her hips. Stiff, almost mechanical, her feet slapping too flat on the floor.

The moon dimmed abruptly. When it brightened again, she was disappearing down the kitchen corridor. Just like those footprints. Eric stole across the hall and flattened himself against the wall as if he were in some spy film. Feeling slightly foolish, he peered around the corner.

T he corridor was empty.  She'd gone into the kitchen.

He crept after her. Christ, it was dark down here. Why hadn't she put a light on? The kitchen door was ajar when he reached it, so he risked a quick peek round it. Too dark to see what she was up to in there, but he could hear her moving around. Probably just getting a glass of water or something.

What now?  She'd be back  any second and there was nowhere to hide  out here .

The unmistakeable swish of a dead bolt sliding back filled him with a sudden, sick dread. The quiet rattle of a handle turning reached him, and then the creak of a hinge. He didn't waste another second. He shot into the kitchen.

It was empty. The back door was wide open and an icy gust of wind splattered hard drops of rain against the stone floor. A figure in pink wavered in the rain-coated window.

Sookie,  in her dressing gown,  walking steadily into the  night .

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His boots were by the door. He stuffed his feet into them, took two steps outside, caught a faceful of pelting rain, and ran back in to snatch his coat off the hook. And then again, to grab the big yellow torch off the counter. He flicked it on and shielded his eyes against the rain, trying to spot where she was.

She was halfway to the woods already. What the bloody hell was she doing? The wind whipped his hair into his eyes, snatched her name away when he shouted it, flapped the coat against him as he tried to put it on. Giving up on the coat, he jogged after the girl.

He caught  up to  her six yards short of the trees. “ Sookie!”

When she didn't react, he grabbed her by the arm and swung her round, raising the torch. The light hit her face and he saw her eyes were closed. What the…?

S leepwalking.  S he was sleepwalking!

But in that instant she came awake. Her eyes fluttered open, her face scrunched against the rain, and the arm that had been limp in his hand came to life, stiffening and twisting in his grip, pulling against him. He let go of it. Blinking, she shielded her eyes against the bright light.

“Shit. Sorry.” He flicked the torch down, at the ground, and recognised Pam's wellies. Thank Christ she wasn't barefoot; the stones out here would have cut her feet to pieces.

“Eric?” Sookie asked, sounding dazed. “Wh–where am I? What's going on?”

“You were sleepwalking. Here, put this on.” He slung his coat around her shoulders. “It's peeing down. You're getting soaked.”

“I wasn't sleepwalking,” she muttered sullenly, struggling to stuff her arms into the coat as the wind tugged at it. Eric's help was more of a hindrance, his hands tangling with hers, the torch beam swinging crazily, shining in his eyes and hers. She shoved his hands away. “I'm not a child,” she said, with some irritation and a lot more alertness. “I can put a coat on. And I've never sleepwalked in my life.”

“Well, you did tonight. Let's get out of this wind. It's bloody freezing out here.”

Taking firm hold of her elbow, he guided her towards the shelter of the woods. It was less windy under the trees and marginally drier. Once she got his coat on and zipped up — it was several sizes too big, but the cuffs were elasticated so she just pushed the sleeves up — he handed her the torch and crouched down to tie his boots.

“Don't want to twist an ankle on the way back,” he said, working the laces tight.

“I was dreaming,” she said slowly, her voice almost too low to catch over the rain and wind. “I dreamt he was calling me.”

Eric looked up, his fingers tying the final knot on autopilot. Her face was shadowed and he couldn't read her expression. “Who?” he asked.

“The little boy.” She turned to face the woods, leaves rustling under her feet. Trees loomed out of the darkness as the torchlight danced over them. “Henry. His name is Henry. He's all alone. I have to help him.”

Oh fuck. Eric shot to his feet, grabbed her shoulders and shook her, probably harder than he should have. “Sookie,” he said urgently, “Sookie, listen. You're still half asleep. That was just a dream. It wasn't real.”

But she wasn't listening.

“See? There he is.” She pointed into the darkness. There was flicker of light several feet off the ground. A soft, green flicker that moved erratically along the edge of the wood, dancing in and out of the trees.

“That's just marsh gas. A will o' the wisp. That's all it is. There's no-one out here but us.”

“No,” she insisted, shaking her head. “It's Henry. He's calling me. I can hear him.” The flickering light bobbed and wavered in the wind and changed direction, weaving deeper into the trees.

And Sookie took off after it. With the bloody torch.

“Wait!” Eric yelled and he gave chase, cursing and calling her name as he tried to keep up with her.

But she was quick, too quick to catch and sure-footed as a deer. She darted through the trees, ducking under low branches with an ease denied someone of his height, slipping between bushes that snagged at his jumper and slowed him down. Soon he was trailing behind and, with only the cloud-covered moon to light his way, he stumbled over a patch of uneven ground and slammed into a tree.

Fuck! That bloody hurt!

Cursing and rubbing his shoulder, he pushed on, chasing the bouncing light of the torch. Sookie hadn't slowed at all. She was drawing further and further ahead. Damn the woman! He was losing her.

He went as fast as he dared then, almost a full run. Branches whipped at his face and tore at his jumper, but he ploughed through them, his eyes fixed on that torch as if his life depended on it. The ground became boggy underfoot, thick with mud. It plastered his boots and he slipped once, and slipped again, his arms windmilling as he fought to stay upright.

And then he couldn't see the torch at all.

Where the fuck was she? He didn't know which way she'd gone, couldn't even tell which direction he'd come from to retrace his steps. Panicked, slipping and sliding in the mud, he did a three-sixty, shouting her name, his voice rising in desperation.

“Over here!” a voice called back, faint and to his left.

He shot towards it. A thorny mass of brambles blocked his way, but he plunged through them and came out at the top of a steep bank. It was thick with rhododendrons, treacherous with rainwater. There! A smudge of light that had to be the torch. He scramble-slid down the bank towards it, ignoring the wet branches and leathery leaves that smacked at his face and arms, and staggered out into a clearing.

Thank fuck. There she was. “Sookie,” he gasped between heaving breaths.

She had her back to him and she was up to her elbows in a mound of ivy. The torch was on the ground beside her, half-buried in leaf litter, its light dimmed and useless, and when she didn't acknowledge him, he saw red.

“Bloody hell, woman! Do you want to break your neck? What possessed you to go haring off—”

“Shut up and help me!” She was tearing at the ivy like a mad woman. An armful of vines came free and she tossed them aside.

They landed on the torch, which just infuriated him further.

“Help you do what? A spot of midnight gardening?”

His voice dripped sarcasm. The rain had slowed, but not by much, and although the headlong dash through the woods had gone some way to keeping him warm, it was bloody cold, and he was wet, and getting wetter by the second, and he was too bloody tired for this shit. He rescued the torch from under the ivy and stomped forward, seriously considering just tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her bodily back to the house.

Bricks. There were bricks showing where she'd cleared a gap in the ivy. There was something beneath what he'd thought was just a mound of vegetation.

“What is that?” he said, flicking the torch over it. Mud squelched under his boots as he shifted to get a better look.

The ivy had grown over an old building. Tufts of grass sprouted from the top, all of it covered with ivy vines and easy to miss. A low building, sunk into a dip in the boggy ground. Round, with a domed roof. And an entrance that stuck out towards them.

“An ice-house,” he said, recognising it at last, weariness forgotten in the thrill of discovery. He shone the torch at Sookie, excited.“It's an old ice-house.”

“That's great.” Her hair hung limp and damp over her face. She pushed it angrily behind her ear. “Would you just help me already?”

“Look, can't we do this tomorrow, when it's light?”

“No. It has to be now. I can't explain it, but I just…” She turned those baby blues on him, full beam. “Please.”

She wasn't going to give up, was she? Christ, she was stubborn!

Cursing under his breath in Swedish, he tucked the torch between his knees and grabbed an armful of ivy. The vines were as thick as his fingers and tough as old leather. At least the exertion would keep him from freezing his balls off. He put his back into it and between them it didn't take long to uncover a wooden door. It was rotten, the hinges and lock rusted with age and disuse.

Two swift kicks, and it broke open. Sookie jostled his elbow, eager to get inside.

“Let me go first,” he said gruffly. He swung the torch in an arc. The beam lit up a passage: red bricks stained white with salt on either side, more red bricks arching overhead, a dirt floor scattered with fragments of brick that had come loose from the walls. Frost damage from winters past.

No footprints though. No-one had been here in a long time.

Eric went in, Sookie on his heels, her hands on his back, pressing him forwards. They turned a corner. A doorway with no door, empty but full of darkness that was as black as pitch. The torch beam stabbed beyond it, a narrow needle of light reaching into yawning space.

Bricks glistened at the far end of the beam, a curving wall of them. This was the ice chamber. It was maybe eighteen feet across and twenty-five high, egg-shaped, pointed end down, most of it sunk below ground. When Sookie tried to squeeze alongside him, Eric threw his arm out to stop her.

“Careful!” he warned. The word echoed, oddly distorted. “There's a drop.”

He angled the torch down to show her. The bottom of the chamber was a good fifteen feet below them. It was scattered with rubble and debris. Something small and furry scuttled away from the light. A rat, probably. Sookie's breath hitched, but when she spoke her voice was steady.

“We need to get down there.”

Of course they did. With a heavy put-upon sigh, Eric inspected the wall below them. Shallow steps had been built into it, if you could call slabs of granite that protruded a mere inch or so steps. They'd perhaps been anchor points for a wooden ladder back when the place was in use, however many centuries ago that was.

“It's quite a climb,” he said. “Think you can make it?” When she hesitated a fraction too long, he thrust the torch into her hands. “Here, hold this. I'll go first.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Because you're the man?”

“No, because I'm too heavy for you to catch.” He got down on his belly and wriggled his legs over the edge, pausing to flash a grin up at her. “If I break a leg, go fetch help. Now shine that bloody torch somewhere more helpful than my eyes, would you?”

“Sorry,” she said meekly, and did as she was told for once.

The granite was wet and slippery, but the toes of his boots gripped it well enough. He dropped the last few feet, landing with a grunt. Sookie tossed the torch down to him. He wedged it in the rubble so his hands were free and stood beneath her as she squirmed over the edge, ready to catch her, his heart in his throat. Those wellies weren't ideal.

She took it nice and slow though, only slipping once. As soon as she was within reach, he wrapped his arms around her thighs and lifted her off the wall. He turned, loosening his grip, and let her slip through his arms until her feet hit the floor.

“Thanks,” she whispered, turning to face him.

“My pleasure,” he whispered back, his arms still around her. His breath misted in the frigid air between them. Whoever built this place knew what they were doing; it was freezing down here. “What now?”

She put a cold finger to his lips. For one crazy moment he thought she was about to kiss him, but then he realised her head was cocked and her eyes were focused somewhere else. Somewhere far away. She was listening, listening intently to something only she could hear.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. All he could hear was the steady drip-drip of water.

She pulled out of his arms, the torchlight catching her eyes and showing him the determination in them. “Over there,” she said, pointing into the darkness on the other side of the chamber. “Come on.”

And she was off again, clambering over the loose rocks and bricks that littered the floor.

Absolutely fearless; you had to admire her guts.

The torch was wet when he picked it up. He wiped it on his jumper and began to pick his way over the rubble, but his jumper was too wet to be much use as a towel and he'd barely taken two steps when the torch flickered once, twice, and died. Shit. He smacked it against his palm, hoping it was just a loose contact. No joy.

“Sookie,” he whisper-yelled, “the torch is out.”

She didn't answer.

The darkness pressed in around him, solid and impenetrable. He strained to see, his eyes creating flashes and speckles of colour out of nothing. The drip-drip of water was faster now, and louder, almost gurgling, but he caught the faint rustle of his borrowed coat over it. She hadn't stopped. Bloody impatient woman! Rubble shifted ahead of him, the clatter echoing off the walls, and he had visions of twisted ankles and broken wrists.

“Sookie! Wait a minute!”

Again, she didn't respond. His fingers found the switch on the torch, flicked it back and forth. Still nothing. But his eyes were adjusting, and a faint greenish glow resolved slowly out of the blackness.

The wall ahead was shining, giving off some kind of phosphorescence. Pale, but enough of it that he could make out the uneven edges of bricks and rivulets of water running down them. And Sookie, a dark shape rising to her feet, a little to his right.

“I'm here, Henry,” her voice came crooning out of the darkness, soft and honey-sweet. “I won't give up on you. Hush, baby, hush.”

Her whispered words sent a cold prickle down Eric's back. Rock clunked against rock, wet and sharp. The dark shape that was Sookie dipped down abruptly. Shit, had she fallen? He called out and took a precarious step forward, but a stone shifted abruptly under his heel. It threw him off-balance and he only just avoided landing on his arse.

No, there she was, that dark shadow. On her feet again, and nearer the wall. Humming what sounded like a lullaby.

Jesus, that was creepy.

The greenish glow seemed to intensify then, and the soft shining light reflected off Sookie's face and arms. She was at the wall now, reaching a hand out to it. Her fingers crept along the wet bricks, searching, seeking. Eric was about to call out to her again when he saw it. His hand clenched hard around the torch and his heart lurched.

A face! There was a face, right in front of her fingers!

An impossible face. It thrust out of the bricks, part of them and not part of them, stretching the surface of the wall as if it were trapped beneath a glowing green film. The face pressed forward, eyes dark, mouth open in a silent scream. Eric's own yell of warning stuck in his throat, fear-jammed.

Sookie's fingers brushed over the apparition. Then it was gone, sinking back into the wall like it had never existed.

“There you are!” Sookie cried, triumphant. She began to hammer at the bricks with her fists.

No, not with her fists. With a rock, from the ringing clash of stone on stone.

Eric couldn't quite grasp what she was doing, his wits still scattered by what he'd seen. The gurgling increased in volume. Water began cascading down the wall, spraying off Sookie's hands. It pooled around her feet faster than it could drain away. A brick came lose and fell to the ground with a splash. Then another, and another. The wall was going to come down!

“Sookie!” he bellowed. “Look out!”

But she just pounded away at the bricks as if she hadn't heard. Eric dropped the torch, careless of where it landed, and scrambled over the rubble, down on all fours, smacking his knees, scraping his palms, oblivious to the pain, desperate to reach her. Water rushed and roared in the dark, and a chunk of brickwork fell to the ground with a crash.

He threw himself across the last few feet, grabbed her round the waist and heaved backwards. They staggered away from the wall, but his foot snagged on a rock or a brick. He went down like a nine-pin, sprawling across the rubble. Sookie thudded on top of him, knocking the air out of his lungs.

A huge section of the wall collapsed, thunderclap-loud, and bricks rained down all around them.

 


	10. Chapter 10

An avalanche of crashing filled the ice-chamber. The cacophony bounced back and forth off the walls, beating at the air so hard it hurt Eric's ears. It set up vibrations in his chest, in his teeth. Slowly the noise faded, and Eric was left in silent darkness.

He was pinned to the rubble. A hard lump dug into the small of his back, another poked at his shoulder, more under his thighs. The weight on top of him shifted and groaned. Sookie. She rolled off him and he sat up, reaching for her, demanding to know if she was okay as she asked the same of him.

“Bruised but alive,” he answered, his hands running up the outside of her arms, over her shoulders. His fingers brushed her face and caught in matted hair. Her temple was wet, sticky, and he panicked. “Is that blood? Did a brick hit you?”

“No, I don't think so.” She wiped at the spot. “Ugh. It's just mud. I'm okay.”

“Are you sure? You're not hurt anywhere? You're shaking.”

“Just bumps and scrapes. I'm a little shook up, is all.”

His hands found her shoulders again, tightening on them. “You could've been killed!”

“So could you!” She grabbed his wrists and dug her nails in, hard, forcing him to relax his grip. “I should never have dragged you down here. I'm so sorry, Eric.”

The regret in her voice quelled his temper and he let go of her. “I shouted a warning. Didn't you hear me?”

“No, I didn't. I was so focused on finding… I… I couldn't stop.”

“You haven't been yourself since I found you sleepwalking. Once you got down here... It was like you were in a trance or something.”

“It… It was like it was happening to someone else, you know? Like I wasn't the one pulling the strings. And then bricks were falling, and…” He heard her swallow, and her voice thickened. “If you hadn't grabbed me when you did—”

“Don't. Don't say it.” He pulled her into a tight, crushing hug. She hugged him back just as fiercely, her face tucked into his neck. “I've never been so fucking scared,” he whispered, pressing a kiss against her hair, and he didn't know if he meant seeing whatever the hell that face was or thinking she was about to get crushed.

He was still seeing that now, even with his eyes closed. Her, broken and bloody, under a tonne of bricks.

“Me either,” she whispered, shuddering against him. “I wasn't in control of myself at all. That scares the shit outta me. Never experienced anything like it. ”

His arms tightened around her and they stayed like that while he breathed her in, reassuring himself that she was warm and alive and still in one piece. When he opened his eyes, he saw light coming from under the rubble a few feet away. The torch, half-buried, but, miracle of miracles, working again.

“I see the torch,” he said, letting her go.

Sookie got carefully to her feet while he retrieved it. He shone it at the wall first. The bricks didn't seem to be glowing any more, but he wasn't about to turn the torch off to check that, and anyway he was too busy inspecting the gaping hole in the wall. It was about eight feet across and seven high. He worried that the flood that brought it down had made the banked earth behind it unstable too, but it seemed to be holding.

In fact, there looked to be a second wall a foot or so behind the one that had fallen. Some sort of buttressing, perhaps. They built this place to last.

“I don't think any more is going to come down,” he said to Sookie, “but don't get too close.”

“You either. No playing the hero again, buster.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, sarcastic and irritated to be bossed around, but also secretly pleased to hear the fire back in her voice. He flicked the light to the left. “Let's move over there, where it's drier and we can see better.”

The collapse had sent a tumble of loose bricks and chunks of wall spilling out across the chamber. Water had puddled around the messy heap and they skirted it, Eric moving the light over the wall, looking for the source of the flood.

“I can't see where the water came from,” he said. “Helvete, it's freezing down here. We should go back soon, get warm.”

As he turned from the wall, the torch-light caught something sticking out from the pile of bricks. Something small. Something that wasn't the right shape to be a brick. Something that didn't belong. Flicking the light back over it, he saw immediately what it was.

A hand. A hand that was attached to an arm, an arm to a shoulder, to a—

“Don't look!” He grabbed for Sookie, trying to shield her.

Too late. She'd already seen. Gasping, she snatched the torch clean out of his hand and shoved past him. The swinging light sent shadows racing across the ice-chamber.

And over the corpse that lay on top of the fallen masonry, its limbs tangled in the bricks.

“It's a child,” Eric said in surprise.

“ _Henry,”_ Sookie scolded gently. “His name was Henry.”

She trailed the torch slowly over the body, sections of it appearing in the circle of light like flashes of a nightmare. Pale bedraggled hair hung over the face, mercifully sparing them that sight. A thin linen shirt that had perhaps been white, now stained and rotting, clung to the arms and back. The skin, where it showed through the fabric, had an oily sheen and was the colour of candle wax. Tattered breeches and decomposing woollen stockings hung loose about the legs, and the pitiful remains of a shoe flopped from the nearest foot.

“Oh Henry,” Sookie whispered sadly.

She dropped to her knees on the wet ground, her hand reaching out as if to stroke that pale straw-like hair. Eric started forward, bile rising in his throat at the thought of her touching the foul thing, but she let her hand drop. When he crouched down beside her, he saw tears on her cheeks.

Ah, shit. He never knew what to do with crying women.

He patted her arm half-heartedly and murmured, “He's been dead a long time.” That was comforting, right?

“Yeah. Too long.” She choked back a sob. “Too long down here, all alone in the cold.”

Shit, shit, shit. He put his arm awkwardly around her. “Don't cry.” _Please, please don't cry._

Her shoulders heaved once, twice. Then she blew out a long shaky breath of air, sniffed loudly, and wiped at her face with the back of her wrist. When he was sure she'd pulled herself back from the brink and she wasn't about to dissolve into hysterics, he slumped in relief.

Thank Christ for that.

“I dreamt about it,” she whispered softly, wonder in her voice. “The night he died, I mean.”

“You did?”

“He was the kitchen boy,” she said slowly. “He fetched the water, the firewood. Swept the floor, took out the scraps. Ate them sometimes, when they didn't give him enough to eat. Turned the spit too, fat dripping and hissing on the logs, one side of him roasting like the meat, his mouth watering at the smell of food he couldn't have. He was dirty, and you could count his ribs. He didn't even have a proper bed, just a pile of straw in the corner of the scullery. That was all an orphan deserved, the cook said. Ought to be grateful the Master saved a wretch like him from the poorhouse.”

The rubble pressed uncomfortably into Eric's knees, but he was caught up with her, caught in the past. She was completely still under his arm, her voice far away.

“The cook left the pantry unlocked that night. He knew it was risky, knew he shouldn't do it, knew it was a sin, but he was so hungry. It was the dead of night when he crept in there. Everyone in the house was a-bed, no-one to witness him stealing one lousy crust of stale bread and a hunk of ham so small he thought no-one would miss it. He ate by the kitchen fire. Fell asleep there too, his belly full for once. He didn't expect the Master to come in that way, roaring drunk and looking for the scullery maid, his black boots splattered with mud from the road. 

“The Master was a cruel, cruel man. A big brute of a man, with hands like spades. He grabbed Henry by the scruff of his neck and shook him awake. Shouted at him, called him a thief, his breath reeking of drink, spittle spraying from his fat, red face. He was still holding...” She stopped and looked up at Eric, puzzled. “A switch, for his horse. Stiff and about so long.”

“A riding crop,” he said quietly.

She nodded absently. “Yes. He laid into Henry with it. Lashed him again and again, drawing blood. Henry screamed and fought, broke free of him, ran. Ran outside, into the dark. There was snow on the ground and he had no coat, but he ran across the lawn. Towards the gate, and the lane to the village.”

“Not here, to the woods?”

“No, to the gate. The Master snatched up his lantern and gave chase. He caught him by the pond. Henry was sobbing, begging for mercy. The Master was furious, his face twisted and ugly. Like a demon was in him. He smacked Henry across the face with the lantern. Henry fell, scrambled backwards. There were reeds around him, water under him. Cold, freezing water. Hands closed around his neck, pressed him down. Henry kicked and thrashed for all he was worth, but the water was so cold, and...” Her voice hitched and filled with tears. “He drowned him, Eric. He was just a child. A little boy. And he died so afraid.”

Eric didn't know what to say. The silence stretched.

“You don't believe me,” she said, matter-of-fact, wiping briskly at her face. “That's okay. I wouldn't believe me either.” She pulled away from him and he knew he had to do something.

“I saw a face,” he blurted out.

“What? A face? Where?”

“In the wall,” he said, swallowing hard. “Before it fell. A glowing face.”

He wanted to say that it had just been his eyes playing tricks, that it had been too dark to see anything and his imagination had just filled in the gaps. He'd have given anything to be able to say that, and mean it, mean it with absolute certainty, but…

He just couldn't. The experience was too fresh, too raw to deny. He took the torch gently from her. “Let's see if the bod— If Henry can shed any light on all this.”

Eric looked at the boy. At the shirt, which was thin and coarse and old. At the stains on it that could be dirt or blood, it was hard to say at this point. At the rents and tears in it that he could very easily believe had been made by a riding crop. At the fine, pale hair, bleached and brittle as straw now. And at something, tangled in that hair, that looked like it could have been, once, long ago, pond weed.

A shiver ran through him. The smell hit him then.

Not the healthy copper tang of fresh blood, not even the sour-sweet gone-off-meat smell of a week old animal carcass, familiar from his work. No, a rank, foul smell. Earthy, sulphurous, carrying the odour of rotting vegetation and thick suffocating mud. The stench of things long buried, things long drowned.

Things bricked up too long down here in this dark icy tomb.

Eric looked at Sookie. She looked back, her eyes wide, her face pale, her breath misting the air. Wordlessly, they made a collective decision to get the hell out of there.

They scrambled across the chamber, the rustle of their clothes and the clinks of shifting rubble not quite drowning out their panicked breaths. Eric boosted Sookie up the wall, threw the torch up to her, and climbed after her like the devil himself was on his heels, the back of his neck prickling the whole time. Round the corner, a rush down the passage, out of the ice-house, clambering and slipping up that muddy bank … and finally the fear that had driven their headlong flight began to lessen.

Clouds covered the moon. The wind had died and the rain had eased to a light drizzle, the kind that got you soaked through before you knew it. They were both wet already anyway, it was bitterly cold, and neither of them knew which way to go. Eric, worried they'd end up wandering the woods in circles, took command and struck out in one direction.

About five minutes later they hit the boundary fence. Sookie was shivering by then, so Eric set a fast pace, pushing her to keep up, barking at her whenever she slowed. They skirted the edge of the wood, following the fence. It was a long slog. A long, grim and mostly silent slog, the cold sapping their energy for anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other.

Eric's jeans clung to his thighs, chaffing uncomfortably,  h is jumper heavy and wet across his shoulders.  Without adrenaline to warm him, the cold met no barrier to its seeking fingers. By the time he spotted  the house, its  chimneys rising over the trees, he was shivering  too . Sookie was worse:  h er teeth chatter ed continuously, and every so often a great shudder ran through her.  When t hey got to the back door, she tugged at hi s sleeve.

“M-muddy b-b-boots.”

Was she crazy? They had to get warm. “Inside first,” he ordered, practically shoving her through the door. “The floor will wash.”

He got his boots off after a tussle with wet laces. Peeling off his waterlogged jumper, he tossed it in the butler's sink. All while Sookie stood on the mat, shaking with cold as she struggled to pull off those wellies. He helped her off with them; and his coat, her hands too numb to catch hold of the zip. Then he practically frog-marched her out of the kitchen and through the house.

She stopped dead at the stairs, and said something that came out more stutter than sense.

“What now?”

She pointed at his feet. He looked down. The bottom of his jeans were plastered in mud. He shrugged, but she gave him a look that said she was going to dig her heels in.

“C-carpet,” she got out this time.

“Alright, woman! Just keep moving.” He bent down to turn up his jeans, muttering, “For fuck's sake, who cares about the damn carpet!” His fingers were stiff with cold, and it took a moment.

Wiping his hands on his t-shirt, he took the stairs two at a time, grumbling under his breath about stubborn women. But he was glad he was behind her a second later, when another convulsive shudder ran through her and she almost fell down the stairs.

“Whoa there,” he grunted, bracing against her weight as he caught her. “Shit, you're frozen solid. Come on. Lean on me.”

He hunched down so she could sling her arm around his neck, wrapped an arm around her waist and half-carried her up the stairs, ignoring complaints about his cold hands. Another great shudder went through her as they got to her room. Not good. The light was on in the bathroom. He took her straight in there. Reaching past the shower curtain one-handed, he set the temperature and turned the water on.

“You go,” she gritted out, pulling away from him. “I can m-manage.”

“No you can't. Your lips are blue and you can hardly stand. This is no time for modesty, woman.”

She stuck her chin out mutinously, but another shudder racked her and made his case for him. She gave in, with bad grace and a scowl. She struggled out of her dressing gown. The bottom of it was wet and plastered in mud. He chaffed at her arms, encouraging the blood to flow while she worked on undoing her pyjama top,. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons. Making an impatient noise, he took over. She cringed as he pushed the top off her shoulders, but he didn't know why.

She had a vest on underneath it. A long thermal vest.

Bloody good job too, probably kept her this side of hypothermia. Just.

He really didn't like that blue tinge to her lips. Her pyjama bottoms were muddy at the knees and soaked through. Giving her no chance to protest, he yanked them down. She yelped, grabbing onto his back for support as he pulled them off first one foot, then the other.

“Jesus, woman, your feet are blocks of ice. In the shower, now. You have to warm up.”

“S-so do you.”

“I'll get in with you,” he bargained. Lifting her into the bath, he shoved her at the water.

She shied away from it, whining, “It's too hot.”

“It's barely lukewarm. You're just too cold to feel it.” He shucked his jeans, socks and t-shirt, and joined her in his underwear, a pair of snug-fitting jersey boxer-briefs. Rubbing her arms soothingly, he eased her back under the spray. She cringed away from it and curled against his chest, arms and head tucked in, the water hitting her back.

“There,” he said, “that'll thaw you out. Give it a minute.”

He counted to a hundred before he inched the dial up. His feet and hands prickled with returning blood. Sookie was relaxing too, her muscles unknotting little by little. Two more twists of the dial and she stopped shivering completely. Thank fuck. He turned it all the way. Steam filled the space, cocooning them in heat.

He groaned softly, luxuriating in the ability to feel his toes again. It surprised him when her arms slid around his waist. “Better?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” she said into his chest. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Stay put a minute.”

He gave her a quick squeeze, broke contact and got out to investigate the towel rail. Two hand towels, one big fluffy bath towel. One of the hand towels went round his waist, after he'd abandoned his wet boxers to the floor. He held the bath towel up against the shower curtain, high enough to block his eyes.

“I got you a towel. Take that wet vest off. It'll only make you cold again.”

Wet cloth slapped against the bath, then she was stepping out into his arms. He wrapped the towel around her without taking so much as a peek. It swaddled her from shoulder to knee.

“Mmm, toasty,” she said, pulling it tight. “Thank the Lord for heated towel rails. Wait, what are you doing?”

“Drying your hair,” he said, blotting it with the remaining hand towel.

“But you're dripping wet too.”

“I'm fine. Swedish blood, remember.”

“Horseshit. Those are goosebumps on your chest and that towel you're wearing might as well be a postage stamp the size you are.” She opened her towel, stepped close, and embraced him with it at chest height. The towel was just big enough for two, as long as they stayed sandwiched together. “There. Now we're both warm.”

Eric, painfully aware of how inadequate his towel was now it was all there was between them, was beset by sudden urges: He wanted to ask which part of him she was comparing to the size of his towel and watch her blush. He wanted to rub up against her and bathe in the heat of her skin. He wanted look down.

He really, really wanted to look down. She'd moved so fast he hadn't seen a thing, and fuelled by what he could feel his imagination was running riot. But, displaying an epic level of self-control, he settled for clearing his throat and patting at her hair some more.

It meant he didn't have to look in her eyes and it kept his hands busy. Thank fuck his arms weren't trapped in the towel.

“My hair's just fine,” she said, amused. “Dry yours.”

He did as he was told, rubbing vigorously. Wet hair flopped over his eyes, so he didn't so much see her rise up on her toes as feel every wet inch of her slide against him. He groaned just as her mouth latched onto his, hungry and demanding. All thoughts of chivalrous behaviour left his head. Christ, he loved a confident woman.

Eventually kissing wasn't enough for either of them, not with his hands blocked by her towel and hers stuck holding it round them. Somehow they made it to the bed. They sprawled across the end of it, the towel spread out under them to protect the quilt, and there was no doubt where this was going now that their hands had joined the party.

Things proceeded rapidly in that direction until they rolled over and Eric settled on top of her.

“Wait,” she breathed. “We need… Mm… We need a…”

Oh. Right.

“Don't move.” Sealing the command with a firm press of his lips on hers, Eric leapt up and darted into the bathroom. Yes! Still in his pocket. He dropped his wet jeans back on the floor and emerged, waving his spoils triumphantly. Tearing the packet open, he got the damn thing on and laid down beside her again, grinning like a fool.

“There, all dressed for the occasion and yours to command, milady.”

She grinned right back. “I do so like a man who comes prepared. Now, where were we,” and she tugged him back into position.

He didn't reply, his body blanketing hers, his mouth otherwise occupied on her neck, and the time for talking clearly past.

Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew that this explosion of passion was just a celebration of life, something they both needed to banish the horrors they'd found in the ice-house, but he couldn't care less. A short but wonderful and (he hoped) mutually satisfying interval later, he collapsed on top of her.

“Fuck, I needed that,” he said into her shoulder, his toes tingling and laughter bubbling in his throat. She giggled underneath him, which was all sorts of lovely, both the sound and the feel of it.

“Coming off a dry spell, huh?”

“Ah…” Disengaging carefully, he rolled off her and flopped onto his back, squinting at the ceiling while he counted. “Four months, give or take a week.”

“I win. Six. No, wait, almost seven.”

“Are all the men in Louisiana blind?”

“Nope. I'm just picky.”

He smirked. “Nice to know I made the cut, then.”

“Well, not as picky as I was seven months ago, obviously. I lowered the bar a lot for you.”

“I didn't hear any complaints.” He trailed a hand down her side as a prelude to ticking her, but stopped, frowning, when goosebumps rose in its wake. “You're cold.”

“Good. I need to cool off, Mr Hot-blooded,” she said, rolling to face him and licking her lips. “You got me all overheated.”

“Get under the covers.” The stubborn tilt to her jaw told him he'd been too abrupt, too domineering. To soften his words, he surprised her with a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Getting cold again is a bad idea. Humour me.”

Without waiting for her to agree, he got up and went to the bathroom. He threw the condom in the bin, took a piss, washed his hands and came back. She was in bed, the covers pulled tight under her chin. Lifting the blankets, he slid under them and shuffled over to join her.

“You're staying,” she said, surprised.

“Someone has to teach you how to keep warm. First, we tent.” He pulled the covers over their heads, trapping their breath, then wrapped himself around her. “Second, we share body heat. Mmm. Best way to ward off a chill. Scientifically proven.”

“Is it scientifically proven that you have to stroke my ass too?”

“Oh yes. It's the friction, you see. It's very … warming.”

“You are so full of shit.”

He laughed into the warming darkness. “But you're still not complaining.”

“No, I'm not. Not now your hands are warm.”

Hot breath tickled his ear. Lips followed and he groaned, shivers racing down his spine. “Not that I'm complaining” — fuck no, she could nibble on him like that all night — “but I only came prepared to, ah, dress for the occasion once.”

“Mm-hmm. Well, we could improvise…” She kissed his neck while he ran through several possibilities for that, all of them fantastically appealing. Then she said, “Or we could just open the box on the nightstand.”

“You bought a whole box?” He chuckled. “You wicked girl, you.”

“Not me,” she denied, despite the very wicked things her hands were doing to him at that exact moment. “Amelia picked them up when she went grocery shopping with Pam.”

“I'll have to thank her.” Later. Much, much later.

If the first time had been fast and fierce, and filled with a desperate joy; the second, in contrast, was slow and sensual. Leisurely even. They took their time, savouring every kiss and caress, Sookie drowning in pleasure twice before she dragged him under with her, the spectacular sight of her riding him in the light spilling from the bathroom etched in his memory. The third time — and that there was a third took Eric by surprise, because he hadn't been a teenager for almost a decade and he thought that level of ardour was behind him — the third time was just a delight. Teasing and playful, and full of laughter.

He like that, very much, that they could laugh together.

The room was light when he woke up. Sookie was warm beside him. He pushed himself up on his elbow so he could look down at her. Fast asleep, her breathing even, her hair tangled on the pillow — a lovely reminder of what they'd got up to last night. He grinned, remembering.

And so remembered other things. The cold, the rain, the ice-house, the body.

Fuck, what a night.

He slipped out of bed, smiling a little when he found his underwear and t-shirt hanging on the bathroom radiator next to her vest. She must've got up after he passed out and hung them up to dry. They were lovely and warm when he put them on. His socks were still crusted with mud, though. Grimacing, he picked them up, along with his jeans which were still damp. He carried them through the bedroom, sparing Sleeping Beauty a glance from the door. She hadn't stirred. He blew her a kiss and slipped out into the corridor.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Eric shut Sookie's door quietly and looked up. Pam was backing out of the door opposite. The door to Tray and Amelia's room. Her hair was a fright, she was still in last night's clothes, her heels in her hand, and she almost fell over when she saw Eric.

His eyebrows shot up, but he held his tongue until they reached the stairs. “Both of them?”

She shrugged. “You only live once.”

“True. Was it good?”

“Oh, yes. And you, was blondie worth the wait?”

“A gentleman never tells.”

“I'm not asking one, so I don't see how that's relevant.”

Stan's door opened. He came out and stopped dead, glaring the jeans in Eric's hands and the heels in Pam's. “Bloody hell. Am I the only one who didn't get laid last night?”

Pam smirked at him. “Early bird catches the worm, Stanislaus. Dibs on the bathroom. I am desperate need of a hot shower, a very well-earned shower if I do say so myself.” Cackling, she disappeared into her room.

“Wait a minute,” Stan said, following Eric into his room. “If you were with Sookie, who was Pam…? Oh. A threesome. The lucky bitch.”

“Yep.” Eric dropped his filthy jeans on the floor and hunted through his bag for a cleaner pair. “Probably made Tray's year.”

“Or Amelia's. She's bi.”

Eric looked up, fresh jeans in his hand. “She is?”

“You didn't get that? Jesus, you've really been focused on the blonde, haven't you? You always pick up on that stuff.” Catching sight of Eric's thighs as he stepped into the jeans, Stan gave a low whistle. “Big man, your bruises have bruises. She like it rough?”

“That wasn't her.” Eric decided he might as well change his shirt too. Mainly so he wouldn't have to look Stan in the eye as he said vaguely, “An argument with some bricks.”

“Uh-huh.” Stan nodded at Eric's bare chest. “Nice love-bite. Might want to get a rabies shot for that.”

“Fuck off, short round.” Eric squinted down at the mark and grinned. “You're just pissed you missed out.”

“Fuck off yourself, you prick. What happened to pals before gals? You were meant to wake me at four.”

“About that …” Eric grabbed clean socks and a dry sweater. “You up for a walk before breakfast? There's something I need you to see.”

…

It was easier than Eric expected to find the place again. Daylight helped, what there was of it. Grey clouds scudded across the sky, pale sunlight breaking through occasionally, but Eric hardly needed what little light penetrated the gloom under the trees. His headlong chase after Sookie had left an easy trail of trampled undergrowth and broken branches, and snags of wool from his jumper waved from the bushes like tiny marker flags, beckoning them on. Stan gave up asking where they were going after five minutes — all Eric would say was that he and Sookie had found something.

They came to the overgrown hollow and Stan groaned. “Down there? Can't you just tell me what—?”

“You need to see,” Eric snapped, tense now. He plunged down the slippery bank.

The ice-house was right where it should be, its dome blanketed with ivy and weeds, but it looked different in the cold morning's light. Last night felt like a dream suddenly, a very surreal and nightmarish dream. Would the body still be there? What would he tell Stan if it wasn't?

Stan crashed out of the rhododendrons behind him. “Hey, there's a ruin down here.”

“It's an ice-house.”

“If you say so; you're the history buff. So that's why you brought that torch. We going in?”

“Yes.” Eric strode towards the entrance, a gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

Down the short passage, Stan hot on his heels, sunlight left behind, the torch lighting the way. Turning the corner, the empty doorway yawning onto darkness. His palms sweating, Stan jostling against him. Grabbing the edge of the bricks, swinging the torch up. The light sliding over the rubble-strewn floor, reaching the far wall. Wavering to the left, seeking the spill of bricks and masonry. Finding it just where he expected it to be, settling on the pale form lying there.

Still lying there. Shit.

“Fucking hell!” Stan whisper-yelled. “Is that—?”

“A corpse. Yes.” Eric swallowed bile, his fingers numb on the torch. “It's not recent. This place is old. Could've been down here a century, easy.”

“You sure?”

“Fairly.” He moved the light off the body, glad to let the gruesome sight vanish back into the shadows. He showed Stan the hole where the wall had collapsed. “The rain brought down that section over there.”

Stan whistled. “You think some fucker bricked the poor sod up down here?”

“Looks like it.” The ice-chamber didn't seem so oppressive now his pulse had stopped pounding in his ears. Or so dark.

There were bricks missing overhead. Shafts of wintry sunlight pierced the darkness and roots hung from the roof like a living curtain. Odd. He hadn't noticed those holes last night. The storm clouds must've blocked out the moonlight. It had been very dark down here. And he had been … distracted. The place seemed remarkably mundane now. Quite ordinary. That glowing face _was_ probably just his imagination, a product of stress and adrenaline. Probably.

Eric shook the thought away. There were practicalities to see to. “We'll have to call the police.”

“Yeah,” Stan said thoughtfully. “You know, I've never seen a dead body up close.”

They looked at each other. “We can't disturb anything,” Eric warned.

“Of course.” Stan took his phone out of his pocket and held it up. “Let me just get an establishing shot.”

…

They were subdued when they climbed out of the hollow. Being that close to death, especially a child's death, was sobering even for them. Eric scrabbled in his coat pocket for his cigarettes.

“Can I scrounge one of those?” Stan asked.

Surprised, Eric held out the almost empty packet. Stan rarely smoked. His hands shook slightly as he reached for it, but Eric didn't comment. It was cold in the ice-chamber and Stan was only wearing a thin raincoat over a t-shirt. They'd spent a good fifteen minutes down there too, while he got all the shots he wanted.

Maybe more shots than he wanted. He looked a bit green around the gills as he bent over the lighter.

As Stan inhaled his first lungful of cancer in years, Eric lit his own cigarette and took a long drag. Quite what Sookie would think of them shamelessly filming poor 'Henry'… No, he had a pretty good idea what she'd think, and it wouldn't be pretty at all.

Best not think about that. Best not think about what was in the ice-house at all.

Thank fuck his stomach was empty. The smell was stronger this morning.

They walked in companionable silence until Stan asked, “How'd you and Sookie find the place anyway? You never said.”

Wasn't that the million dollar question? Eric kept it vague but fairly close to the truth. “We saw a light out here. Sometime after three.”

“And you thought, what, it might be locals messing about, and came out to investigate?”

“Mm-hmm,” he mumbled around his fag. Something like that, anyway. “It was pissing down.”

“So you took shelter in the ice-house and discovered its gruesome secret. How the hell did you get from that to…? Of course.” Stan started to laugh.

“What?”

“Got you the girl, didn't it. Nothing like a dose of terror to make them leap into your arms. Like taking 'em to a horror flick.”

“Speak for yourself. I don't need to resort to cheap tricks. Women adore me.”

“That's not what that Greek chick said.”

“Thalia doesn't count. She was barely female.”

“She was barely human. Didn't stop you fucking her, though.”

He shoved at Stan, who danced out of the way, laughing. “Come back here and say that, you prick.”

“No way, arsehole.”

They arrived at the house cheerful and boisterous, the nicotine and fresh air having dispelled the chill in their hearts along with any lingering whiff of rot. As Eric leant against the wall, taking off his muddy boots, Stan fiddled with his phone.

“I have the number for the local police,” he said. “I'll give them a ring.”

Eric left his boots outside and went in without him. Amelia and Tray were sitting at the kitchen table. Pam stood at the counter, pouring water from the kettle into a row of mugs. Sookie was getting milk out of the fridge. Eric went straight to her, planted a kiss on her cheek and squeezed her hand.

“Morning. You hungry?”

The open display of affection seemed to surprise her, but all she said was: “Sure am. I could eat a horse.”

“Me too.” He reached around her to open the fridge. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Amelia hanging on their every word, the shameless busybody. “No horse, but we've got plenty of pig. Sausages or bacon?”

“Um…”

“Both it is. Excellent choice.” He put the packets on the side. Amelia had leant so far over in her chair that he thought she might fall off it. He lowered his voice, but not so much Amelia couldn't hear. “We did burn a lot of calories last night.”

“Eric!” Sookie hissed, slapping his arm.

He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Get your mind out of the gutter, woman. I meant our adventure in the woods. Stan's just calling the police, by the way.”

Amelia jerked upright, her chair scraping against the floor. “The police?” she squeaked. “What do we need the police for? Did something happen last night?”

“Yes.” Eric felt Sookie tensed up beside him, so he squeezed her hand again. “We found a body.”

The kitchen erupted. “What!? A body, a dead body?” — “Where? Whose is it?” — “Fuck me sideways. You didn't think to mention that earlier?”

That was Pam. Eric answered her first. “I know better than to get between you and a hot shower. You get arsey if you can't comb your hair every ten minutes.”

“Oh please. Like you give a shit about annoying me. Whose body, where it is, and will it interfere with us leaving? I have to get back to civilisation. I have meetings on Tuesday, important meetings. I can't stay here at the arse end of nowhere while DCI Bumblefuck or whoever's in charge investigates.”

Eric was putting the bacon under the grill and throwing sausages into a frying pan while Pam ranted. Once she took a breath, he looked over from the cooker and said sarcastically, “What, no show of concern? No ' _Eric, Sookie, how terrible for you'?_ It's all about you, isn't it, Pam.”

She snorted. “I'm sure you were completely traumatised, Eric. So traumatised you couldn't sleep alone.”

“You really want to go there after what you got up to last night?” Eric raised an eyebrow and glanced significantly at Amelia and Tray. Tray was the only one of the trio to look even slightly embarrassed, but Sookie's eyes got big and round.

“Amelia Broadway!” she hissed. “You did not!”

Amelia just grinned like a cat who'd got the cream. And a whole tin of salmon too.

Pam, naturally unfazed by any of this, opened her mouth to whine some more, but Eric interrupted her before she could get going. “Don't get your knickers in a knot, Pamela. I doubt it'll take more than a few hours. None of us will be on the list of suspects.”

“Suspects?” Tray asked, sounding as concerned as any ex-con in a foreign country would be about the prospect of a police interrogation. “It's a murder, then?”

“You don't brick someone up behind a wall if they died of natural causes,” Stan said as he came in. “The rozzers are on the way. Be at least an hour, they said.”

“Oh my God!” Amelia said, her eyes glowing. “A real-life murder investigation! How exciting! It'll be like starring in an episode of _Criminal Minds_.”

“It'll be like _Heartbeat_ this far out in the sticks,” Pam muttered.

“Ah, no. More like _Time Team_.” Eric saw that the Americans didn't get the reference. “What's that cold case one with…? _Bones_ , that's the one. More like _Bones,”_ and he explained about the ice-house, the flood, and that the body been there for decades at least, probably longer.

Pam unbent considerably once she knew she wouldn't get tangled up in red-tape. Pensive, she tapped her nails on her mug of tea. “Hm. An ice-house, you say. They usually date from the eighteen hundreds, I think. How did we miss that when we were searching the woods?”

“Oh, it's all overgrown,” Stan said, taking a loud slurp from his own mug.

Pam winced as if in pain and slapped his arm. “Manners, Davidowitz. You lack them completely.” Turning to Sookie she said, “That begs the question of how you two managed to find the place in the dark.”

Eric jumped in before Sookie could say anything. “We stumbled on it by accident.”

“They saw a light out in the woods,” Stan said helpfully. Then he snickered. “And Eric bravely went to investigate, taking Sookie along for protection.”

Eric muttered, “Like I could bloody stop her,” and Sookie gave him a less than friendly glare.

“You saw this light from your room?” Pam asked, blowing gently on her hot tea.

She was only feigning nonchalance though; her eyes flicked between Sookie to Eric far too shrewdly for it to be real. Eric focused on the sausages, which were sizzling away nicely now. Pam could smell bullshit a mile off and he dared not meet her eyes while he shovelled it in her direction.

“We were down here actually,” he said, going for casual. “Sookie was getting a glass of water and I was still up, so—”

“At three in the morning?” Pam was all over that detail, and she wasn't the only one.

“Yeah,” Sookie said, side-eyeing Eric with some suspicion of her own. “I thought that was kinda strange myself.”

“It's a good job I was up,” he blustered, hoping to distract them both. “If I hadn't given you my coat, you'd have frozen out there in just pyjamas.”

“I had a robe on, don't make it sound like I wasn't decent!”

“You're ducking the question, Eric,” Pam said gleefully.

Fuck. Busted. She knew him too well. “I, ah…” Eric ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. “I was keeping watch. Stan set up some more surveillance.”

“Thanks,” Stan grumbled. “Throw me under the bus, why don't you.”

“It was your idea! I was only helping out!”

“What sort of surveillance?” Sookie asked, glaring at them both now, her hands on her hips. Not a good sign. “Are we talking cameras in bathrooms? Because you guys have done that before.”

“Of course not,” Eric said hotly. “Stan knocked up some infra-red sensors. Motion sensors. In the corridors. That's all.” He gave Stan a look, suddenly wondering. “That _is_ all, right?”

“Way to make me sound like a pervert,” Stan huffed. “You were the one desperate to get to the bottom of the big mystery.”

“And you were the one paranoid enough to—”

“Eric! The damn sausages are burning!” Sookie shoved him out of the way and snatched the spatula out of his hand. “Give me that, and quit being such an ass.”

“ _Arse_. The word is arse, woman.” They'd had a conversation about that in bed. Sookie must've remembered that too, because the scowl he got was fearsome.

And very cute. He had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at it. Suddenly feeling quite light-hearted, he added playful, “I seem to remember you being quite complimentary about my _arse_.”

She whirled on him, spatula raised. “Do you want a whopping on it? Keep being an _ass_ and I'll do it, I swear.”

“Whoa,” he said, stepping back, hands raised in surrender. “There's no need for violence.”

“Then don't drive me to it!” She flipped the sausages over aggressively, the spatula scrapping the pan. “Stop standing there gawking at me, Eric. I can't stand people watching me cook. Make yourself useful. And the rest of y'all can stop staring, too.”

“Yes, ma'am,” came Tray's voice, rumbling with barely restrained laughter. Amelia was actually giggling, the bitch, and the looks Pam and Stan were exchanging foretold of future piss-takings of epic proportions.

Eric glowered at them all, the fuckers. Giving Sookie and that bloody spatula a wide berth, he went to the fridge. They had mushrooms, tomatoes, and eggs. He ask who wanted what and got busy. When the sausages were done, he leaned over to put the mushrooms he'd chopped in the frying pan. Sookie glanced over at Pam and then looked him in the eye.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “For lending me your coat last night.” Her eyes said she was grateful for more than the coat.

He'd kept her secrets.

“You're welcome.” He nudged her hip with his. “Our first fight. However will we make up.”

“Oh, hush you,” she said, nudging him back. “Don't you ever quit? And I'm still mad, don't think I'm not.” She was trying not to smile though.

…

“That really hit the spot,” Tray said with a satisfied sigh. They were outside, having an after-breakfast smoke. He loosened his belt a notch and checked the door before he spoke again, in a quieter voice. “Something freaky happened last night, didn't it? I can tell.”

“It did.” It was pointless denying it, but Eric really didn't want to discuss it.

Tray whistled softly. “She told you, didn't she? What she can do…” He tugged on his ear to demonstrate, and when Eric nodded grimly, he grinned. “Don't look so glum, Stretch. She don't tell just anybody, you know. She likes you. A lot.”

“No shit. I got that.” He was irritated, and Tray's eyes narrowed.

“If you ain't having an easy time with it, think how it's been for her.”

“I can imagine.” He gave Tray a narrow-eyed look of his own. “You believe it, don't you. That she can really hear…”

“I got good reason to.” Tray grunted and shook his head. “But I see you ain't convinced. Maybe there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, you ever think of that, Horatio?”

“An ex-con quoting Shakespeare. I'm impressed.”

“Don't sound so shocked. I might be rough around the edges, but I can fucking read you know.” Tray crushed his cigarette butt on the wall. “Wasn't quoting the bard, anyway. It's on an Iron Maiden track.”

Eric laughed. “That's a lot less surprising.”

Tray laughed too, and then he got serious. Very serious, like he'd rather swallow hot nails than have this conversation. “About the other stuff last night…”

Eric, realising what he meant, jumped in quickly. “Spare me the details. I don't need to imagine your hairy arse naked.”

“I just… It was a one time thing. Amelia gets wild hair once in a blue moon, it ain't more than that. Pam knew that going in, I was real clear on that, but women sometimes get funny ideas about that shit, and—”

“Tray, Pam is the least clinging woman I've ever met. I've watched her chew up tougher men than you and spit them out before breakfast the morning after. I don't think you need to worry.”

“Good, because—” Tray stiffened at the sound of an approaching car. “Shit. Reckon that's the cops?”

“Probably. Don't look so petrified. They don't carry guns in this country, you know. It's probably just community support officers out here, anyway. And all they're armed with is harsh words.”

Tray didn't look completely convinced, but he did stopped looking like he was about to bolt.

…

“Action,” Stan said from behind the camera.

Eric, one hand in his pocket, breathed in, breathed out, and deliberately relaxed his shoulders. Behind him, the yellow tape criss-crossing the entrance to ice-house shifted in the light breeze.

“Some strange things happened while we were staying here,” he said to camera, “things I can't explain. It all culminated in something we've never dealt with on _Phantom Science_ before. As you can see, there's a crime scene behind me.” He winked at the lens. “Don't worry, I didn't murder Stan because he insisted on a million takes as usual. But someone did die here, a long time ago, and we found the body. It was a child's body, but let me start at the beginning.”

He talked about the footprints, the messes in the fireplaces, the dead crows, the ice-house, and a rainstorm bringing down an old brick wall. The things he had evidence for, that they'd all witnessed.

Which all sounded crazy enough.

He left out the voices, Sookie's dream and the face he'd seen in dark. Those he wasn't comfortable telling anyone. Not even Stan.

And definitely not Pam, who was currently glaring at him from across the clearing.

Eric had been right, it had only taken the police until lunchtime to take all their statements. They hadn't even moved the body yet. The two coppers who'd turned up — one female, one male, both younger than Eric — had immediately realised how long it had been down there and had called it in as more of a curiosity than an active case. Whoever was on call at the coroner's office was busy with another body, one that was recent and urgent, so they'd get round to collecting this one when they were good and ready. Tomorrow, maybe.

It _was_ Sunday, and they were at the arse end of nowhere, as Pam had been muttering all day. She was in a foul mood.

She waited until Stan was packing up the camera to start bitching. Again.

“Eric, this is a terrible idea. We positioned ourselves as skeptics with a capital S and appearing to renege on that is not going to go down well with our target demographic. There'll be a backlash from the fans, and you know what the internet is like. We'll get torn apart in the comments. We just can't put this out under the _Phanto_ _m_ _Science_ banner. It's inviting a flame war that could kill off the show.”

“Give it a rest, Pam. It's going up if I have do it under my own name.”

“Good. Do that, and make clear it's nothing to do with the show!”

Stan grunted as he lifted the camera bag. “Stop being such a control freak, Pam. I say we run it as an extra, so you're outvoted. If our fans are that closed-minded, we could do with shedding some of the idiots. Besides, it's the Halloween episode. I bet you fifty quid they think it's all a massive joke. A very meta science joke about evidence and coincidences, obviously.” He turned to Eric. “We can work that angle. We can run your piece to camera, cut in that footage from the kitchen mysteriously cutting out, the photos Pam took of the dead birds, and the shots of the dead kid I took this morning. It'll be awesome.”

“Sounds good,” Eric said, carefully not looking at the Americans.

They were bunched together about six feet away, but Sookie had just stiffened so he was pretty sure she'd heard everything Stan said. Including the bit about filming the body.

Pam threw up her hands. “Fine! If we go under because of this, don't blame me!”

She flounced off, swearing every other word. Amelia looked like she might go after her, but Tray stopped her with a look. Wise man. It was always better to let Pam cool off when she was that furious. She had a mean punch, and a meaner tongue, and Amelia was likely to get her head bitten clean off if she spouted any of that New Age bullshit right now.

Amelia and Tray went over to help Stan instead. As they lugged the equipment up the bank, Sookie came over to Eric.

“You didn't need to do that,” she said. “Not for me.”

“I didn't do it for you.” He took her hand as they started up the slope. “I can't explain what that happened this weekend, but I also can't deny that it did. Part of the scientific method is keeping an open mind, you know. What sort of scientist would I be if I didn't report the truth?”

“I guess that makes sense.” She worried at her lip. “But I hate that y'all are fighting over it.”

“Pam will get over it. We've fought worse over less.”

“I'm sure, but I don't like being the cause of it.”

“You're not. Talking about this on camera wasn't your idea. It was mine.”

And what had decided him was what they'd learnt that afternoon, after the police left.

Lydia Harrington had turned up at the manor. She'd heard about the body from her next-door neighbour, who'd had it from the lady who ran the village shop, which was where the police officers had been, buying chocolate bars, when they got the call from the station. Lydia wanted to know all about it. When she heard it was a child, a little boy, she asked some questions about the style of his clothing and got rather excited.

She said they'd laid a two hundred year old mystery to rest.

She went back out to her car and fetched a folder of papers that she'd collected back when she was writing a history of the village. From it, she pulled out photocopies of parish records and old newspapers, shifting through them until she found what she wanted.

First, a faded sketch of the manor from the thirties. There had been a small ornamental pond in front of the house. It had been filled in sometime between the wars, when the driveway was widened and straightened. There was no evidence of it now.

Sookie couldn't have known where it was, but she'd been right. It was on the way to the gate.

Second, a newspaper article, dated 1784. It was about the death of a local landowner, a Richard D____. He had been thrown from his horse as he returned to the manor one night.

By the pond.

Witnesses swore a young boy had run out of the reeds and spooked his horse. A boy who promptly vanished into thin air. A servant boy, who'd gone missing from the manor two months before in suspicious circumstances. There was a rumour the lad had gone to London to seek his fortune. A reward had been offered for his whereabouts by the landowner's bereaved family, but he was never found.

The article only gave his last name. It was Bradshaw.

The last piece of evidence was a copy of the parish records. There was an entry for a birth on the _Eleventh of May, Year of Our Lord,_ _1773_. The name, written in faded and flowing copperplate, was seared into Eric's memory, along with the tears in Sookie's eyes as she read it:

_ Bradshaw, Henry John. _

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eric wouldn't let me leave it there, so there's an epilogue. It's bittersweet though, so I hope you have some Halloween candy left to eat afterwards.

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

Eric paused at the top of the bank. The others were out of earshot; it was now or never. “Have you, ah, heard anything more from…?” He nodded back at the ice-house.

“Not a thing,” Sookie said softly. “And I don't think I will. It got what it wanted.” She sighed and shook her head. “Eleven years old. Poor Henry. You think they'll bury him in the churchyard this time, with his family?”

He rubbed her knuckles comfortingly with his thumb. “Maybe.”

“Good. I think he'd like that.”

They talked of pleasant things  the rest of the way to the house.  B ands they liked, favourite food s, inconsequential n onsense really, but  Eric was painfully aware of how little time they had  left and n either  of them seemed willing to spoil it.

“Well, this is me,” Sookie said when they reached the drive. Tray and Amelia were beside the taxi, saying their good-byes to the others. The Americans were all packed up and ready to leave.

Eric bent to kiss her cheek and they hugged. “It's been fun,” he murmured. “Mostly.”

“Thanks for not freaking out about… Well, you know. It means a lot.”

“The Tower is worth a visit. You'll love it.”

“Thanks.” She flashed a smile, but no dimples. “London here I come.”

“They won't know what's hit them.”

She smiled properly at that, dimples showing and that twinkle lighting up her eyes. He committed it to memory. She said good-bye to the others, allowed Stan to kiss her hand again, and got in the taxi. Tray honked the horn as they pulled away.

Eric kicked at the gravel and watched her go, missing her already.

…

The three Brits travelled back to London in the van. Stan drove. Eric dozed in the back. Pam was still mad at him, but not so mad that she didn't hug him goodbye when they dropped him off at Kings Cross. The station was busy and he made his way to the departure board. There was a train to Edinburgh in an hour.

He didn't get on it.

T hree days,  he decided, wasn't  nearly  long enough to  unravel the mystery that was Sookie Stackhouse.

He rang his boss, finagled a week off, and then called Tray to find out where they were all staying. He got a taxi across London, and was waiting in the hotel lobby when the Americans came back from dinner.

The smile Sookie gave him was glorious.

He'd booked himself a room of course, but he was barely in it. By Wednesday, Sookie insisted it was a waste of money, made him check out and move into hers. They spent their days sight-seeing: Buckingham Palace for the changing of the guard, a ride on the London Eye, a trip to the Tower to see the Crown Jewels, and a boat trip down the Thames in freezing rain he didn't give a shit about as long as he could hear her laughter and see those fucking irresistible dimples.

Their nights were passion-filled, and playful, and intense. They made good use of every possible surface in her room, and a few in the bathroom too. By Saturday they were both completely sleep-deprived, but neither of them cared. They were deliriously happy.

They didn't once talk about the ice-house, or the voices Sookie heard, or any of that.

It was wonderful.

And then it was over.

…

Pam kicked off her heels as soon as she got inside. Dropping her bag on the sofa and her keys on the coffee table, she made a beeline for the fridge. She'd eaten already, but there was a chilled bottle of Chablis in there with her name on it. The fridge was stainless steel, like the rest of the kitchen. Very modern, very fashionable, and very expensive. Pam worked bloody hard so she could afford to live in a flat that looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine.

She was just opening a cupboard to get out a glass when her mobile rang. Fuck. It better not be work. She'd put in enough bloody overtime this weekend. They could just sod off, the lot of them. She'd been _this_ close to throwing her bastard of a boss out of his tenth floor window yesterday.

She looked at the phone, saw who it was and frowned as she took the call. “Eric?”

“Pam. You home?”

“Yes, just got in. What's up?”

“No date tonight?”

“Only the bottle of wine I'm about to open.”

“Good.” He hung up.

What the fuck? Was this some new drunk-dial fad she didn't know about, one where you randomly called a friend and asked them if they had a date on a Sunday night?

Maybe he'd made a bet with Stan. Yes, that was probably it. Bloody idiots, the pair of them. They could both fuck right off. She wasn't in the mood for their nonsense after the week she'd had.

Pam went back to the kitchen and rummaged in a drawer for the corkscrew, but before she got a chance to use it her doorbell rang. What now! Couldn't a girl open a bottle of wine in peace? The flat was open plan and Pam glared at the door as if she could laser her way through four inches of wood and steel from where she was.

The concierge was going to get a piece of her mind. He knew not to let anyone up without calling her first.

Except for the people she'd told him were exceptions. All two of them.

No. It couldn't be…

She went to the door, putting the wine bottle on the coffee table on the way. Standing on tiptoes, she put an eye to the peep-hole and squinted through the distorting bubble of glass. She swore softly.

It fucking was.

Eric was outside, his head down so she couldn't see his face. He had a hand on the door-jamb and he was leaning heavily on it.

She opened up. “What on earth are you doing in London?”

“Hello to you too,” he said sourly.

“What bit your arse, you grumpy sod.” The bag beside his feet was the one he'd had at the manor house, and the hand he wasn't leaning on hung loose at his side, wrapped around a bottle of vodka. A large bottle of vodka. Pam put two and two together and came up with, oh, about twenty. “You've been with blondie, haven't you? This whole week.”

“She'll be boarding about now.” He lifted the vodka bottle. “Fancy keeping me company?”

“Do I have a choice?” She sighed. “Come in.”

He left his bag just inside the door, put the vodka down on the coffee table next to the wine and slumped on the couch like he owned the place. In the middle of the pristine white leather couch that cost her a month's wages, still in that scruffy leather jacket she detested that was covered in God knows what filth.

But she didn't yell at him.

Instead, she leant her hip against the back of the sofa and searched his face. He was staring at the vodka bottle, his eyes far away.

Fuck my life, she thought. I haven't seen him like this since third year. At least he brought decent vodka, not the paint-stripper we used to drink back then, but I bet I still have a hangover straight out of Hades tomorrow. Hm. I could call in sick. I just worked the whole bloody weekend, the bastards can't complain.

And if they do, I'll bloody quit. Life's too short for this shit.

“Well,” she drawled, breaking the silence. “I hate to say I told you so, Eric, but I said it would end in tears. I just didn't think they'd be yours.”

He roused himself enough to say, “Bullshit. You live for saying I told you so.”

“True, I do. ” On her way to the kitchen, she paused and squeezed his shoulder. “I'll get the shot glasses. We can drink to me being right yet again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming along for the ride everyone, I hope you enjoyed my spooky tale. While I was researching brownies, barghests, and other wee beasties from old English folklore, I came across a real ghost story, The Cauld Lad of Hylton. That's what I based poor Henry on. If you're interested, it's on Wikipedia.


End file.
